The Mountain
by LucyO'Gara
Summary: Sinbad agrees to investigate a series of disappearances from a mountain village in the Caucasus, but he's dangerously unprepared for what, and who, he finds. Sinbad/Maeve, slightly AU.
1. Chapter 1

**The Mountain**

Pairing: Maeve/Sinbad  
Rating: M  
Setting: Alternate  
All standard disclaimers apply

* * *

Bitter wind howls through the bare trees.

Sinbad hugs his thin linen clothing close to his body, arms tucked tight against his sides. He knew climbing into the mountains would be cold, but he didn't realize just how cold. The ground remains bare for now, but he doesn't like the look of the roiling clouds overhead.

Sinbad is used to the wind. On the sea, it's his lifeline, the tie that binds him to land and carries him safely from one port to another. But here in these northern wilds, the wind assumes a sinister quality. It gusts from one direction, then another, and he can't be sure from one moment to the next where it hails from. Its noises are eerie, too—the trees shriek and groan as they bend and sway, and though Sinbad understands what makes the sounds, they raise the tiny hairs on the back of his neck. His body, already cold and shivering, tenses for a fight as the wind laughs and keens, sounding like people crying out for help. Or like demons closing in.

Pausing for a moment, Sinbad leans against a shuddering tree and breathes slowly. He hates this. Being so far north and so high in the mountains is unnatural to him. He never should have agreed to do this, but the mayor of Ralgorōd was so adamant that they needed help, and is paying him overly well for his time. What else could he do?

The wind pauses for a moment, the groans of the trees calming. Up ahead, Sinbad thinks he can hear a new, different sound. His ears strain as he steps forward cautiously, seeking this new noise.

There. It's faint, and as the wind shifts, blowing from a new angle, he can't be sure of the direction. But his ears know what they hear.

A woman singing.

Caution keeps him slow. They're too far from the sea for sirens, but the existence of other malevolent creatures is always possible and Sinbad doesn't like to take chances he doesn't have to. He walks slowly, doing his best to judge the location of the singer despite the wind. He wants to find her before she finds him. Even if she's not dangerous, she has no business so deep in the mountains. His map tells him there are no villages nearby, no people here in the mountainous wilds. She needs to return to the safer, populated areas along the river, down in the lowlands.

The trees grow thinner as he climbs, spindly, spiky things, their roots running along the surface of the poor, rocky soil, thin and long and pale. He isn't used to climbing mountains and his chest heaves, gulping air. Neither did he realize the air would get so cold so quickly. Dressed in linen meant for a scorching climate, he shivers as the icy wind slices like a knife through his clothing. He curses and pushes on, his mood souring with each step. He's usually much better prepared for any eventuality, but where he's from eventualities don't include freezing to death.

The woman's voice grows clearer as he climbs. Sinbad knows nothing of music, but the voice he follows sounds sweet in his ears. He doesn't recognize the language, but then, so far from his home, he doesn't really expect to. Her voice is clear and high, hitting notes he doubts he could even as a young boy. It's lovely, and though his caution remains, he wonders what she'll look like when he finds her. Probably a shapeless blob of leather and wool, he suspects. They're far from any common trade route, which means she must be a local, and therefore better prepared than he is for the bitter cold.

A moment later, the sweet song turns to a scream.

Despite his prior caution, Sinbad runs. To hell with it. Maybe she is some sort of land-siren. He's going to risk it.

The wind buffets him; he struggles to keep his course. The girl screams again, and this time, Sinbad hears a low, dangerous male laugh follow. He pushes his frozen feet faster.

They're fighting when he reaches them—three men and the woman. She spins and lands a booted heel in one bearded face, breaking the blunt nose. The man howls in pain, the sound animalistic, almost canine, hands rising to shield himself as blood erupts like lava, flowing down his cheeks, dripping from his chin.

Without a word Sinbad rushes the closest man, tackling him from behind. They hit the ground hard; Sinbad hears the sickening crack of at least one of the man's ribs breaking.

The woman swears as the third man grabs her. She stomps backward, blindly searching for his foot, but he eludes her sturdy boot. One meaty hand covers her breast, squeezing roughly. She curses again and a sharp elbow digs backward, finding its target. He yelps as she thrusts hard into his tender belly, his grip loosening enough that she's able to shift sideways, freeing her trapped arm. She drives upward with the heel of her hand, connecting hard, cracking teeth as she deftly breaks his jaw.

"Don't _fucking_ manhandle me, Fido!" she growls in passable Turkish, kicking him in the balls for good measure.

Sinbad thinks she's glorious.

Also terrifying, especially when she turns and her eyes alight on him. They flash like fire.

Moving with the grace of a swift current, she crosses to him and crouches near his struggling captive. One pale hand reaches out and grabs the man's greasy black hair. She jerks his head back, exposing his scruffy throat.

"You listen good, dog. When this guy lets go, you're going home. Tell your alpha that none of you fuck with me again, got it?"

The man growls. Sinbad can feel his muscles tense as he prepares to break free. He shifts his body on top of him, helpfully jabbing the man's broken rib in the process. The man yips, the sound almost as high-pitched as the girl's song. Her fiery eyes flick to Sinbad and the corners of her mouth lift in a sardonic smile.

The hand not holding the man's hair moves, and Sinbad watches her lift a blade to the exposed, furry throat. It's a broad, single-edged hunting knife, and the metal shines with an odd gleam he can't place. Not steel, nor iron, not even silver.

Not that it matters much to the man held between them. He swallows, and the motion of his adam's apple opens a thin seam in his skin. Blood blooms.

"Or I could skin you here. Not that you've much of a pelt." The dark promise belies her sweet voice. Sinbad has no doubt she absolutely means it. "Tell your alpha."

The man's black eyes shift from Sinbad to the woman and back again as he weighs his options. Finally they lower, closing in submission. He can't nod with the wickedly sharp blade at his throat.

She releases his hair and withdraws the knife, standing swiftly. Sinbad follows, watching as the man struggles warily to his feet. He hugs his cracked ribs, limping slightly as he shifts away from Sinbad and the girl.

Sinbad eyes the situation, cautious, in case any of the men might offer a further attack. They all look similar, as if they might be kin—eyes and hair as black as any southerner, but with the paler skin that marks them as natives of this mountain region. They aren't dressed for the weather any more than Sinbad, and their feet are bare besides.

The biggest man, the one with the broken jaw, is the worst off. He went down when she kicked his balls, and stayed down. Sinbad feels slightly bad for the guy, but only slightly. He knows better than to put his hands on any woman who refuses him, let alone a hellcat like this one.

As the two men still walking slink away, Sinbad allows his attention to shift to the woman beside him.

She looks nothing like the men, and he can tell in an instant she's no local. Their pale skin has an olive cast to it, but she's the color of new milk, the exertion of the fight bringing the loveliest bright pink to the apples of her cheeks. Her hair spills down her back and over her shoulders in fat, loose copper curls.

"You're _Celt_."

Keen eyes the color of dark honey appraise him. "Well done, stranger." Luckily she sounds amused.

And oh, she's lovely. He's met Celts before, the strange, half-wild people from the far northwest corner of the known world. They're a tall race and this girl is no exception, nearly standing eye-to-eye with him. But he's never met one so beautiful. She has the proud bearing of her people but a graceful beauty all her own. Thick, dark lashes frame her keen eyes as she watches him, unafraid, not dropping her gaze.

"Sorry." He smiles, attempting the confident grin that always wins women over. "I just wasn't expecting to see a Celt so far from home."

"You're not exactly on your own doorstep, either." She glances at the man with the broken jaw as he slowly sits up. One hand holds his mangled lower face, the other cradles his testicles. The black look he turns on them is pure fury, but he's in no state to do anything but glare. "I didn't ask for help, you know."

Now that he's seen her fight Sinbad knows she was in no danger from these three attackers, but he didn't before he intervened. "I heard a woman scream. That seemed invitation enough to me."

"They startled me is all. With this damn wind changing directions every heartbeat I couldn't smell them before they snuck up on me." She flashes a disgusted look at the one remaining man before sheathing her knife at the small of her back.

The men do smell pretty ripe, even to the nose of a sailor, well used to pungent aromas. They clearly haven't bathed in months, and they must keep dogs, because they smell like them. Sinbad has never been much of a dog person and his nose wrinkles slightly.

The woman continues to watch him, as if waiting for something. Sinbad isn't sure what. He also doesn't really want to say goodbye just yet. Gods, she's beautiful. Beautiful and unexpected, a Celt in the middle of nowhere in the eastern Caucasus mountains, so far from her native islands. She also seems to be alone, which makes no sense either despite her obvious ability to take care of herself.

The wind howls down a low ravine and blasts them with bitter cold. Sinbad winces. The girl is dressed somewhat warmer than he, in soft, tight leather breeches that fit snugly into her sturdy boots. A loose linen tunic falls a little past her hips, gathered snugly around her torso by a tightly-laced leather vest. The neckline plunges deep, showing the tempting shadow of cleavage, and while he can fault the other man for attacking her, he can't fault him for wanting to touch. Her clothes aren't necessarily meant to tempt, but everything about her calls to the man in him, awakening male hunger. He wants this girl, wants her badly.

But he remains still as she studies him, letting the silence lengthen, allowing her to watch him as he watches her. The final black-haired attacker limps away; both Sinbad and the girl ignore him.

Her chest lifts with a deep breath. She licks her lips—they're deep pink, plush and perfect. He wants to taste them, to bite the full curve of that lush lower lip and hear her whimper.

"You know, most men would be demanding repayment for their aid right now."

"I'm not in need of coin."

"That's not what I mean."

"I know." He smiles. Yes, he wants her. Wants her badly, and he's not trying to hide it. But he'll never take a woman by force or coercion. That's not his style. "Name's Sinbad."

Her head tips to the side as she studies him, her hair shifting, glints of color shining in the thin mountain air. So beautiful. So exotic. He wants to say that glorious red hair is her best feature, but those lips…

"Maeve," she says finally. "What are you doing so far north, Sinbad? You're not dressed for it." She glances at his thin linen shirt and _sirwal._ "You look like you ought to be taming flying carpets."

She has a mouth on her, and from the smirking curl of her lips, she knows it. He grins. "If I had a flying carpet I sure as hell wouldn't be climbing mountains on foot." He eyes her tempting body again, letting his gaze linger on her hips, the swelling curves of her breasts. "You don't look much warmer."

"Looks can be deceiving." She takes two steps toward him, bringing her body within inches of his. One delicate, long-fingered hand rises, palm facing him.

He accepts the offer, placing his palm against hers. His hands are icy and he expects hers to be, too, but when he touches her, he finds instead a silky warmth he can't explain. She's so warm, and his breath catches in his throat as he touches her. His eyes widen with surprise and he grabs her other hand.

Warm. She's blessedly warm, and he can't explain it.

She smiles slightly and draws his hands together, covering them with hers, warming his fingers, beginning to melt the ice that's formed within him.

"You're warm." He frees one hand only to touch her pink cheek. Her skin is so soft, the softest thing he thinks he's ever touched, and he's unsurprised to find she's warm here, too.

"I'm never cold." She smiles and takes his hand from her cheek, looking at it thoughtfully. "What's your preferred language, carpet-tamer?"

"Arabic," he replies slowly, watching her. As a sailor he has to communicate reasonably well in all major trade languages but he doubts a young woman from so far north speaks his tongue.

"Works for me," she says, deftly switching over. Her Arabic, while heavily accented, is better than her Turkish.

"What about you?" He's a little nonplussed. How would a barbarian girl from the far west even learn his language?

"Arabic is fine. You don't speak my native language, trust me."

"Would Latin be easier for you?"

She snorts, amused. "The Roman invaders who took Britannia were too afraid to set foot on my island. They are now gone, but the fear of us remains. Why should I prefer their prissy tongue?"

She's right, and Sinbad can't help but be amused by her perspective. He wonders what she sees as she studies his calluses, his profession as a sailor branded into his flesh. She runs her fingertips over his, turns his hand to touch the soft, dark hairs on the back of it. He's not as hairy as many men—not nearly as furry as the three they just beat, for instance. She touches the broken nail on his thumb, traces the thin white lines of two old scars.

A gust of wind sets the trees near them shrieking, and she wrinkles her lovely nose at the noise. Glancing up at the sky, her eyes narrow. "It's going to snow soon. Before nightfall."

Shit. Just what he needs.

Her honey-colored eyes meet his. Her thumb touches the skin just below his eye, warm and gentle. "I like your eyes." There's no fear in her as she studies him. "Will you come with me? I can give you shelter. Repayment for your kindness." The corner of her mouth twitches with humor.

"Thank you." He's not equipped for snow. He's not equipped for any of this, and he doesn't like feeling so ill prepared.

She releases his hand and turns. He follows.

They head vaguely east—Sinbad has a map and some meagre provisions in a small sack, but he doesn't really know where they are right now. Maeve seems to, walking with the easy assurance of familiarity. They pick their way lower on the mountain, where the trees grow thicker, protecting them somewhat from the buffeting wind.

"I didn't know there were men around here." These mountains are wild and dark. The people huddled in small villages at their base tell tales of danger, of unnamed evil lurking in the mountainous wilds.

"There aren't." Maeve bends the prickly branch of an evergreen aside, holding it for him as he passes.

"My knuckles say otherwise." He shows her the split knuckles where he raked his hand on the rough, rocky ground when tackling her attacker.

She gives him a wild grin full of the feral beauty of her people. "Those weren't men, Sinbad. Those were werewolves."


	2. Chapter 2

**The Mountain**

Pairing: Maeve/Sinbad  
Rating: M  
Setting: Alternate  
All standard disclaimers apply

* * *

"Coming?" Maeve calls from the top of the rope ladder. She swings herself easily onto the wooden platform at the top.

Sinbad follows, still a little shaken. Werewolves. He ran headfirst into a pack of werewolves because a woman screamed. His older brother, Doubar, will kill him for his foolishness when he finds out.

Not that Doubar would have done any different.

Rope is second nature to Sinbad and he climbs swiftly to the platform half hidden among spreading branches. He draws the rungs up behind himself, ensuring no one will be able to follow without climbing the tree.

Maeve has disappeared into a tiny hut that takes up most of the platform. He watches as the gleam of a flame flares and settles; she's lit a fire. True to her prediction, snow began to fall about ten minutes ago.

He follows her through the little doorway. The walls are thicker than he expected, a double layer of wood with daub between for insulation. He's glad of the extra padding, despite how it shrinks the inside of the hut. There isn't room for both of them to move at once without getting in each other's way, so Sinbad shuts and latches the door behind himself, then settles into a corner to keep out of her way.

She's lit a fire in a small metal brazier, and he welcomes the heat as the coals grow rosy and warm. There's no window, just a small hole in the low ceiling to let out the smoke. Maeve shifts the brazier under the smoke hole, touching it with her bare hands. Sinbad isn't really surprised that it doesn't burn her.

"What are you?" he can't keep from asking, despite knowing it isn't the wisest question. She has magic, that much is obvious. And she said herself that there are no people living in the area.

Her lovely, light brown eyes lift to his. "Celt. You said so yourself." She stands to retrieve a linen sack hanging in the corner. "Why? What are you?"

He considers the question. She's given him no reason thus far not to trust her, and she's offered him the safety of this shelter, however primitive, as the mountain storms outside.

Wind blasts them, howling through the trees, and the tiny hut sways as its tree shudders.

"It's okay," Maeve says, unfazed as she draws food from the sack. "It's perfectly safe."

"I wasn't afraid." Sinbad offers his own bag, doing what he can to add to their provisions. He wishes he could do more. "I'm a sailor. The swaying is actually pretty comforting to me."

"I guess it would be, wouldn't it?" She tips her head to the side again as she considers his words. He likes this habit of hers, how she really seems to listen when he speaks. So many people don't. "I've never been on a ship."

"Bullshit."

Her eyes meet his; they flash again with the anger he saw when she fought the werewolves. "I'm not a liar, sailor."

"Your people live on islands. How did you get to the mainland, if not on a ship?"

"Magic." She opens his bag and pulls out the folded map. He doesn't stop her as she unfolds it, holding the valuable paper well away from the fire. "Is this what it feels like? To be on the sea?"

"Very similar." He holds his hands over the brazier, as close as he dares. It's heating the tiny space quickly and he feels his frozen skin slowly begin to thaw. Gods, he misses being on the water. He misses the beating sun on his skin, the feel of his ship beneath him. He misses his crew, his friends and his brother. Most of all, he misses his own easy confidence, the assured feeling that he can handle whatever comes his way. It's something he's always had, even as a child. Here in the mountains he's woefully unprepared, and hates it. He's smarter than this—better than this.

"It's almost funny how wrong your map is." She folds the paper again and gives it back to him.

Great. Yet another way he's unprepared. "Almost?"

She places a small iron pan over the fire and draws her knife, slicing rounds off a large, cured sausage. They sizzle as they drop to the heating metal, fat melting and popping. The savory smell makes Sinbad's mouth water. "If you're relying on that map to keep you alive, it's not very funny, is it?"

"No," he agrees, "but I wasn't. Relying on it, that is."

She slices a large red apple and a shallot into the pan with the sausage. Fighting the freezing wind for two days has made Sinbad ravenous and the smell of hot, hearty food is driving him crazy. He has bread, stale but plentiful, and spent the previous night against a rock, dry but shivering.

"You're a puzzle, Sinbad." She shakes the pan and stirs the food with her fingers, once more unfazed by the heat.

"How so?" He can't stand it. When she lifts her two fingers from the pan, coated with hot juice, he grabs her wrist. Not hard—he knows better. He lifts her hand slowly to his mouth.

She lets him. His mouth opens and her fingers slip inside. The hot oil from the sausage nearly burns, flavor exploding on his tongue.

She shifts, her body moving in the tight space, sliding into his lap. Those lovely amber-dark eyes never leave his. "You have no idea what you're doing, do you?"

He releases her fingers. Her hand slips from his mouth and slides behind his neck, under the sweep of his silky brown hair. "Playing with fire." He does what he's wanted to do since meeting her, bringing his mouth to hers. He captures that lush, perfect lower lip between his teeth and bites.

She's a live spark in his arms, her body so, so warm against his. She whines a high, sweet note when he bites, and kisses him fiercely.

And oh, she's as perfect as he knew she would be. She tastes like sweet woodsmoke and crystalized honey, fire and sugar. Her lips are plush and soft but there's nothing sweet or ladylike about her kiss. It's raw and hungry, matching his need, the pull he felt toward her from the very beginning. He can't get enough. His tongue shoves roughly against hers; she bites down as hard as he bit her. Her short nails rake the back of his neck, the line of his muscled shoulders. He loves it, loves her feral ferocity and the way she takes what she wants without playing coy.

When she finally eases her mouth away, breathing heavily, her brown eyes gleam. "Playing with fire? You have no idea, sailor."

He touches his mouth to hers again. She's so sweet, so warm; he can't keep away. "I'm a fast learner."

She nips his lip. "Good."

He's not happy when she shifts off his lap, but he knows better than to try to restrain her. She lifts the sizzling pan from the brazier, holding it in one hand. The other she flips palm-down, and lowers slowly toward the floor. As she does the fire ebbs, flames shrinking to glowing coals. She puts the pan back on the metal lip of the brazier and moves over, giving Sinbad room nearer the fire.

He has to use his knife to spear pieces of food while she uses her fingers. They both eat ravenously; he likes that she doesn't try to hide her hunger, pretending to be more delicate than she is.

"I know what you meant," he says between bites. "And you're right. I took a job without really knowing what I was getting into." He scowls. That isn't like him, but this isn't like any job he's ever accepted before.

"What kind of job?"

Sinbad watches her. She's given him no reason not to trust her, despite the mystery of her own presence here in these godforsaken mountains. Possibly she's even saved his life by taking him in tonight. He can hear the shriek of the wind outside, feel the sway of the tree supporting them. He's not prepared for this sort of storm. The temperature is plummeting; even inside the insulated little hut he feels the cold creeping through the walls.

"The mayor of Ralgorōd, down at the river. He sent word to me through a friend, asking for help. Said the people in his town and others along the river keep disappearing, and it's happened often enough that everyone's afraid."

She looks at him curiously as she eats. "Why would they send for a flying-carpet tamer? No offense."

He grins. She's adorable, and he loves that mouth of hers. "Sailor, remember? From Baghdad."

"Even worse. Sailors don't seem very good at climbing mountains."

"I've done my share of adventuring." He rubs the back of his neck. "More than my share, maybe. My name gets around. I was actually supposed to meet an old friend in Ralgorōd to help with this job, but he never showed." Sinbad frowns. That isn't like Tetsu, and he's worried despite knowing the ronin can take care of himself.

"Looks like everyone's calling in the cavalry for this one," Maeve says quietly, as if to herself. She chews lightly on her lower lip. "I wish they'd at least talk to each other first."

Sinbad has no idea what she's talking about, but he's willing to wait for an explanation. He touches the handle of the empty pan; it's warm, but not hot enough to burn his callused hands. He stands, lifting the pan to put it outside the door until morning. When he opens the door, the wind hits him full in the face, stealing his breath.

"That's a hell of a storm." Maeve wrinkles her nose. "Close the door, quickly."

He obeys, shaken by the bitter ferocity of the biting cold, the howl of the wind. Darkness fell fast and hard, and he couldn't see anything outside the door but the driving snow. He shivers, unused to the feel of snow on his skin. It's such a strange sensation, a stinging burn on his face and hands, yet cold, not hot.

"Have you ever seen a snowstorm before?" Maeve pushes the brazier out of the middle of the room and unrolls a woolen bedroll previously tucked into a corner. "Come here."

"Snow, yes. Snowstorm, no." He follows her lead as she shucks off her boots, shoving them in the corner behind the door. There's barely room for the two of them and the metal brazier.

"Weather can change moment to moment in the mountains. You can't take anything for granted." She pushes her hands into the crossed flaps at the front of his shirt, and he shudders at the jolt of her warm palms against his skin. The bite of the driving snow was bitter; hers is so, so sweet.

"It's the same with the sea." He unwinds his red _hijam_ and his shirt opens. She pushes it off his shoulders.

He catches her delicate chin with deft fingers, turning her slightly. Her mouth is hot when he kisses her, tasting woodsmoke and sugar, smoke-sweet.

"You are so beautiful." He nips that tempting lip, positive he's already fallen in love with its sweet, lush curve.

"I know." She grins; he kisses the bow of her smile. "You are, too."

He knows he's good-looking, but he's not sure anyone's ever called him beautiful before. He's not sure whether to feel amused or insulted, but then she shimmies out of her tight leather breeches and he decides it really doesn't matter.

She climbs onto his lap once again, bare legs to either side of him, eyes steady on his as she settles the scorching cleft of her legs deliberately against his cock and presses against him. _Fuck_. She's hot as the coals in the brazier and the pressure on his throbbing dick threatens to make him come immediately. It's been a while since he's had any woman, and never one like this. He groans into her mouth. He throbs, aching, wanting this woman, the body curled around him, the cunt pressing perfectly right there, so good and yet so painful, his cock trapped, pinned between them by his _sirwal_, by her weight, so close to what he wants, what he needs.

She's laced up the front; he's tempted to cut the binding to save time but suspects she might kill him. He fumbles to untie the leather cord, mouth locked with hers, relieved when her hands cover his, helping him loosen the laces until she can pull the vest over her head.

His hand reaches between them, slipping under her loose tunic. Her mouth breaks from his and she exhales a deep breath into the side of his throat as his fingers find the molten heat at her core.

"Fuck, girl." He has no other words. She's hot-slick, and he can smell her heady scent, sugar and smoke, tantalizing, her slippery wetness coating his fingers. He strokes her gently, rubbing soft velvet folds, amazed at the silky heat of her, so warm, so sleek. He expected coarse curls of pubic hair but finds none, only the overwhelming heat of her, silky-hot, smoky-sweet. He raises his hand to his mouth, inhaling that scent, licking the smoke-sweet wetness that spills from her, coating her silky folds, his rough fingers.

"More," she pleads, licking his mouth, his tongue, taking his hand in hers, putting it back between her legs. He needs no urging. His cock aches and he rubs it roughly through his _sirwal_ once. Her hand follows his, long fingers finding his length through the coarse linen. She strokes him firmly, hand sliding down his cock, measuring him blindly, squeezing through the material. Fuck, yes. Just like that. He aches to wet his dick but his fingers are busy at the moment, stroking her again, that perfect wet heat, liquid fire on his skin. He wants to devour her.

Slowly he eases the tip of one finger into her, stilling as just the first knuckle enters the blazing heat of her body. She whimpers, the sound so high, so sweet, like the song that first called to him. Her pelvis rocks, her sensual body pleading, begging him for more.

"Inside," she urges, low, sweet, hips rocking, cunt weeping for more. "You're too big." She squeezes his cock through his clothing. "You have to stretch me first."

Fuck, he'll do whatever she says when she talks like that. He groans low in his throat, nearly a growl, and his mouth finds hers again as his finger moves, penetrating deeper, sinking slowly into that swollen, welcoming heat. So good. So slippery warm. He suspects she knows exactly what to say to get what she wants, but she's not lying: this sweet cunt is tight, hugging even one finger firmly as she rocks, urging him deeper, begging for more.

"Stretch me," she pleads, nipping the lobe of his ear. "I want that cock."

Oh, gods, she can have it. He'll fuck her until she begs for mercy. He exhales deeply, easing a second finger into her, pressing, pushing against that glorious tight, slick cunt. His other hand moves from her waist, pulling her loose tunic up and over her head. He wants to see her, the perfect body he knows she's hiding.

And yes, it's exactly as perfect as he imagined. Firm breasts, her little nipples light pink, so different from the lovely dusky browns he's used to. He cups one, running a thumb over the tightly budded nipple, then bends to take it in his mouth.

She squeals, and that sweet cunt flutters around his fingers. He presses deep, pushing into her, stretching her slowly, loving her noises, her slick-hot sweetness cupped in his palm. He's never fucked a woman who removes her pubic hair before, but he loves the swollen velvet softness of her bare skin in his hand, against his palm, his fingers. She's so tight even around just two of his fingers and he aches to know how that tight cunt will feel stretched around his cock. It throbs as she strokes him through his clothes, but his hand remains gentle as he stretches her, stroking slowly in and then out again, reaching deep, deep into her molten core. He rolls a tight nipple in his mouth, addicted to the taste of her, as his thumb dips between her plush, swollen folds, finding the hard little jewel of her clit. He strokes it lovingly, a slow, soft, circular caress, mimicking what he plans to do later with his tongue. She moans into his mouth, the sound nearly a purr—oh, she likes that. He continues, petting her clit slowly, so slowly, gentle circles with his thumb as his fingers reach deep. He adds a third, loving the tight stretch of her cunt, the rock of her pelvis moving in time with his slow, curling fingers. She tilts her clit firmly against his thumb, mouth at his ear. "More. _Please._" She takes all he gives her, whimpering, pleading. More. _More._ He knows what he's doing and gladly gives her what she needs, curling his fingers, pressing them against the front of her vagina, pressing, seeking, until he feels a warm quiver roll through her, a wave of her liquid heat, her body shifting, moving not like flame, but like the sea. There. There she is. He presses right there with his fingers, thrusts, withdraws, pressing deep, harder, listening to her pleading cries as she begs for more, harder, faster, whatever he can give. His thumb rolls on her clit and he bites her lower lip again, breathing her breath, holding her so firmly to him. Her hand tightens on his cock and she comes exquisitely, pleasure shaking that gorgeous body as the storm outside shakes the hut. She pulses around his fingers, the lean muscles of her thighs locking around him; slick-hot liquid drips from her and he aches to taste again.

He withdraws his fingers but doesn't release her, bearing her so-hot body to the blanket beneath them. She shoves at his _sirwal_ but he ignores his throbbing cock for the moment, spreading her wide with his hands, holding her open. She glistens, silky-hot, liquid-sweet, and there's so much he wants to do to that body. First he lowers his head, needing to taste her again, taunted by the so-hot smoke-sweet scent of her.

"You're fucking perfect, girl." He licks at her bare velvet folds, shiny-slick with her desire, her pleasure, holding her open, holding her still when her body tries to writhe under him. His tongue finds her clit and she mewls, struggling against his grip, her body twisting and surging in his hands as she comes again, hot liquid sugar against his tongue, in his mouth. He nips the tender crease where hip meets thigh before moving up that perfect body, lapping at her navel, the delicate lines of her ribs.

"I'm not." She gasps when he bites a pink nipple, not so gentle as before. "But I'm pretty fucking close."

She helps him remove his _sirwal_ and a moment later the weeping head of his cock, deep red and swollen, hovers at her entrance. He savors the moment, bracing for what he knows will be the overwhelming sensation of that molten cunt.

Her hands are between them; she strokes his swollen length, cups the weight of his heavy balls and squeezes. He groans and takes her wrist, pulling her hands away. "If you expect this to last, keep your hands to yourself."

She obeys, biting down on that tempting lower lip of hers, and he shifts his attention back between her legs, watching, enthralled, as he holds the base of his cock and slowly pushes forward. And fuck, she's everything. So, so hot, hot as the flames that obey her. He watches the red stretch of her cunt as he presses slowly into her, so sensual. He's never felt more viscerally male as he watches and feels that wet, wanting cunt submit to him, stretching to take his thick cockhead, her body shifting, struggling to obey. It fills him with a heady, virile high. He presses deeper, moving slowly, feeding her two solid inches before withdrawing, then shifting forward again.

And as he moves, claiming her body, she rocks her pelvis with his, her arms by her head, hands tangled in those glorious copper curls. There's no pain in her, just deep, deep pleasure as he gives her exactly what she's been pleading for. Half-lidded, her fire-dark eyes watch him.

"I knew you were big," she whispers, voice breathy; he watches as her gorgeous breasts rise with each inhalation. "Please, more. You won't hurt me."

She knows her body better than anyone else. He shifts, gripping her hip, holding her steady as he presses deep, giving her what she wants. Her head tips back and she moans, the sound pure sex, and he buries himself in her balls deep.

Oh, gods, the feel of her. She's liquid fire splayed before him, his for the taking. Her fire-amber eyes and the slippery evidence of her pleasure give him all the permission he needs. He pulls halfway out, holds there for a moment, then slams back deep.

She comes instantly, that obscenely tight cunt pulling at him, threatening to take him with her as curses in some foreign tongue spill from her mouth. She's everything, overwhelming, the heat of her, the smell of sex heavy in the air. Sweat beads her perfect creamy skin. He strokes into her and bends to lick between her breasts. Her short little nails bite into his shoulders and he thrusts up into her, so good, so sweet, her tight little cunt yielding to his cock. She rocks with him, easily falling into his rhythm, her mouth locking with his, kissing him hard. It's rough and beautiful, carnal and fantastic. He presses his forehead to hers, drowning in the sensation of her smooth body, so sleek, slick-hot, skin sweaty and soft. He fucks his cock up into her, so deep, so good. Too good; he won't last. When she comes again he won't be able to hold back.

She shifts below him, legs rising to wrap around his hips. With the new angle he reaches deeper, bottoming out in her. She groans and he feels her walls begin to tighten around him. His balls ache to the point of pain; he can't stop it this time.

She doesn't jerk away, doesn't demand he pull out, so he stays where he is as his testicles contract, knowing how stupid it is and not giving a fuck. He holds himself deep within her as pleasure explodes through his body, thick ropes of come spilling from him, spilling inside her. He's never wanted to breed a girl before, but the thought of this one round with his child fills him with deep satisfaction.

"Fucking fuck." Her legs release him and his cock slowly slides from her. She shudders as he withdraws, stretching that gorgeous body, slick with sweat, her eyes gleaming with content. "Come here, sailor."

He settles next to her and she curls against him, movements slow and languorous. So beautiful. So hot. "Are you okay?" Every inch of her body screams satisfaction, but he still feels compelled to ask.

She laughs and raises her head to kiss the corner of his mouth. It's an oddly tender gesture, and Sinbad is touched. "More than okay," she promises. "Shit, I like that cock."

He chuckles and wraps his arms around her. Now sated, her fire returns to its previous slow simmer. She's achingly warm, and he refuses to let her go. This woman…she does something to him, something he's never felt before. He likes her dark sense of humor, her direct speech, the brutal honesty he senses in her. She still hasn't told him what she's doing so far from home, but there's no evil in her, that much he knows.

The wind howls outside and the walls around them shudder, but in the tiny hut Sinbad is warm. The air hangs thick with the scent of sex as Maeve, drowsily content, wraps them in her bedroll, pillowing her head on his chest.

"Thank you." It sounds strange in the moment, but he feels compelled to say it.

"What for?"

"Saving my life." He may not know snowstorms, but he can feel in his bones how deadly this one is. He kisses her damp curls. She tips her head up, offering her mouth, and he's only too glad to comply. He's in love with that tempting lower lip. Quite possibly with the rest of her, too.

"_Kismet_. Isn't that what your people call it?" She traces the line of his mouth with one fingertip. "I'm here for the same reason you are. We just have different masters."

"Employers," he corrects. No one owns him, and he pities anyone who thinks they own her.

"Employers." She tests the word on her tongue, committing it to memory before settling back in his arms.

"Who sent you here?" He's exhausted, but he's also beyond curious. She's a mystery, this woman of fire alone on an icy mountain. Nothing about her makes sense, especially the easy way she allowed him to fuck her, the trust with which she nestles in his arms now.

She yawns and presses tighter against him. "Tomorrow. You can have the whole story tomorrow."

* * *

Late in the night she shifts against him, sleep-sweet, her body sated, like liquid against his. He wakes with her movement, watching as she feeds a handful of charcoal to the brazier and coaxes the flame to grow once more. Though he's blissfully warm tangled with her body inside the woolen bedroll, he can feel the aching cold battering at the tiny hut, the shriek of the wind as it struggles to get inside.

"You're safe." She strokes his hair and kisses him softly as she returns to his arms. "These _óstáin_ are made by the Fae. They don't fall."

He wasn't afraid, but her words wake him up a little more. "They're what?"

"Made by the Fae," she repeats, offering him a droll little smile. "You aren't going deaf, are you? The wind isn't that loud."

His tired body wants to be lulled by hers, so warm in his arms, but he forces himself further into wakefulness. "You're telling me fairies made this treehouse?"

"They don't like being called that." She hides a yawn against his shoulder. "Try not to when you meet them tomorrow."

"Maeve. _Maeve_."

"Sleeping," she mumbles, and refuses to budge from her spot curled against his side.

"Woman, I'm serious! Explain yourself."

"Tomorrow," she says firmly, and pulls the blanket over her head.

Beyond exasperated, Sinbad lets his head fall back against the floor. This girl is perfect…and quite possibly going to be the death of him.


	3. Chapter 3

**The Mountain**

Pairing: Maeve/Sinbad  
Rating: M  
Setting: Alternate  
All standard disclaimers apply

* * *

Maeve is awake and dressing when he opens his eyes.

He does his best to contain his disappointment, pulling on his _sirwal_ quickly, watching as she feeds a handful of charcoal to the brazier. The fire went out during the night and the hut is bitterly cold, but beneath the woolen blanket, tangled with the living flame of her, Sinbad remained warm.

Now she lights the charcoal with a touch, flames dancing against the metal curve of the brazier. Sinbad rolls up the blanket and places it back in the corner.

Only then do those dark honey eyes find him. She leans across the cramped space and kisses his mouth softly. "Hi."

"Hi." He kisses her again, loving the taste of her, the touch of her mouth on his. He nudges her nose gently and is rewarded with a sweet smile. His body shifts, trying to close the distance between them, and his hand brushes the rim of the brazier. "Ow!" He snatches it back, a line of fire seared against his skin.

"See what happens when you play with fire?" She lifts his hand and, to his surprise, licks the burn.

Instantly it calms. The burn remains raised and red but the pain fades, shifting, and the wound looks more like a welt now—something minor that will fade in a day. He watches her with eyes full of keen respect. "I didn't get burned last night."

Honey-dark eyes flick up to his. "Or did you?" One side of her mouth flickers, almost a smile, before she stands and cautiously opens the door.

It opens inward—an outward-facing door would leave them trapped were too much snow to pile against it. But the wind has scoured most of the snow from the wooden platform, and Maeve has to scoop it from short drifts against the wall to fill last night's dinner pan. She brings the pan of snow inside and sets it on the brazier to melt, then opens Sinbad's sack of hopelessly stale bread. She crumbles it into the melting snow, creating a tasteless but edible gruel. They eat quickly with their fingers, neither possessing a spoon.

"Thank you again. For everything." Sinbad runs his clean hand through his hair. He didn't get a good look at the world outside when Maeve opened the door, but he doubts he would have lived through that storm without her and this shelter.

"Kismet. I told you." She pulls on her boots.

"I hate to ask for more, but you did promise me an explanation."

"I know." She settles back against a wall and looks at him, her dark eyes untroubled. "What do you want to know?"

"Everything." He grins.

She laughs. "That might take a while, and I want to put some miles in today. Why don't you start with a question?"

Fair enough. "What are you doing here?"

She nods slightly. "Good choice. And difficult to explain." She exhales a long breath. "Back where I come from, humans and Fae live together. Fae and Celt, we're basically one people even though we look different. Does that make sense?"

It does, though it surprises him, too. He's never seen a fairy in his life, despite his many voyages to distant lands. Most people he knows assume they passed from the world long ago, if they ever existed at all. Now this girl half a world away from her homeland is telling him they not only exist, but live alongside humans. He trusts her, he does. But it's hard to believe.

"My parents died in a Viking raid when I was young. A Fae family took me in because of the magic thing." She flexes her fingers, creating sparks.

"But humans have magic, too," Sinbad protests. "Well, not me. But some of us. Why should that matter?"

"My magic isn't like human magic. It isn't like Fae magic either, but the Fae aren't so easily scared by things they don't understand." She tucks a wayward fire-colored curl behind her ear.

"I'm sorry. My parents died when I was young, too, but I have an older brother and a tutor who raised me." Sinbad knows she won't appreciate it, but he feels sorry for her. It sounds lonely, being so different from everyone around her. At least he had—and still has—Doubar and Dim-Dim.

"Oh, I'm not complaining. I got a far better education than most human girls get, and for that I'm grateful." Her lips twist in a wry smile. "The Fae don't believe leaving half their population ignorant and unskilled does anyone any good."

"Touché."

"Anyway, because of my unique abilities, the Fae queen often asks for my aid. That's why I'm here."

Now he gets it. "You're here for the same reason I am." Except the Fae seem much better aware of the situation, if Maeve was sent by their queen. He was called by a village mayor.

"Aye." Maeve rubs the pad of her thumb slowly along her lower lip. Gods, he loves that lip. "I didn't know when I was sent here that humans were disappearing, too." She frowns. "There are several clans in the area. All have reported people going missing, people who shouldn't. Skilled hunters and scouts. Men and women who know these mountains better than I know my island. It's gotten so bad that they stopped letting their children outside the perimeter walls, and have posted guards when they've never needed to before."

"But people still keep disappearing." Sinbad nods slowly. "It's the same with the human villages in the lowlands. The farmers are afraid to tend their fields, everyone afraid to hunt and forage. But if they stay inside their houses, everyone will starve."

"And freeze, once winter really closes in." Maeve's frown deepens. "Riona, the queen, rules from the capital of Aven, in northwestern Gaul. She sent her captain of the guard and some of his soldiers to reinforce and protect the clans, and me to figure out what the hell is going on."

"By yourself?" he protests.

She eyes him. "You're by yourself."

"I'm not supposed to be. I was supposed to meet a friend in Ralgorōd, and we were to do this—whatever _this_ is, together. But he never showed, and that's not like Tetsu."

"Tetsu. That's not the name of a flying carpet tamer."

Sinbad offers her a wan smile. "He's from Nippon."

"I see. You do get around, don't you?" Maeve shrugs. "Anyway, that's the rambling answer to your question. I'm here to find out why people keep going missing, and to stop it if I can."

"I still say that's an awful lot to ask of one person."

Maeve smiles, and her warmth heats his skin as if she's touched him. "But there's two of us now."

Yes. Yes, there's two of them now. They answer to different employers but their goal is the same and there's no reason why they shouldn't work together to achieve it. Sinbad is glad of that. He doesn't like admitting it, but he's unprepared for the extremes of the mountain. He also doesn't like that this captain of the guard and his soldiers seem to be sitting safe inside a town while Maeve is out here alone. She can take care of herself…so far, anyway. But she shouldn't have to.

Besides, he's not ready to part from her. Something about this strange beauty calls to him, something more than the tempting body he always wants to touch. She's so vibrant, so alive, and he craves that warmth, craves her nearness. She's smart and strong, and she'll make a good ally in this quest. But that's not his only reason for wanting her.

"Those men yesterday—you said they were werewolves?"

"Aye." She regards him calmly as she stands, picking up the brazier in her hands. She opens the door and tosses the dying embers into the snow.

"You're sure they're not the cause of the disappearances?"

"That's what I was checking on yesterday. I scouted several areas where people have gone missing, and tracked their pack somewhat south, away from the nearby clans. They don't tend to hunt Fae anyway, but it was worth making sure. They're probably responsible for a few human disappearances, but not the sort of numbers you mean."

Sinbad nods. At least that's one thing they can check off the list. "And they won't be coming after you again anytime soon. Not after yesterday."

She sets the brazier in a corner and grins at him with the wild ferocity of her people. "I hope they try."

* * *

The world outside the hut is transformed by snow.

The shrieking wind has piled it in drifts against boulders and trees, but they pick their way between patches of bare ground and make better time than Sinbad expected, especially considering his clumsiness. Normally far more agile than most, Sinbad finds he doesn't get along well in snow. It gives underneath him almost like sand, but with enough difference that his body remains cautiously alert, testing each step, hesitant to trust his balance.

Maeve walks easily, but to her credit she doesn't tease or taunt him for his slow progress. They struggle through the spindly trees, moving east, climbing slowly. Wind still gusts around them but the storm has died to a mere bluster, like a bully—all talk and no action. Sun breaks through the heavy cloud cover from time to time, turning the snow into drifts of diamonds. It's lovely, but it hurts Sinbad's eyes and before long his head begins to ache. He almost wishes for yesterday's roiling stormclouds back.

Maeve pauses after a couple of hours of slow progress. She turns to appraise him. "Your head hurts, doesn't it?"

"How do you know?"

"I know that squint." She touches just below his eye; he feels again her sweet, delicious warmth and immediately wants more. "Hold still for a moment." She pulls at the hem of her loose white tunic; Sinbad hears it tear. Before he can ask her what she's doing, she's removed the bottom two inches in one long strip.

"Why did you do that?" he protests. Neither of them are in need of a bandage.

"Hold still, I said." She reaches up and presses the thin linen to his eyes, tying it loosely behind his head. Instantly the pain of the snow glare eases.

"That solves one problem, but now I can't see."

"You're relying on your eyes too much anyway. You can see well enough not to run into any trees. Trust your body. Do you watch your feet every moment on the sea?"

No. No, he doesn't. But his body knows the comforting rocking motion of his ship. It knows the feel of rope when he climbs, how much give the twisted hemp has, how the swaying intensifies the higher up he climbs. This is different. He doesn't know anything about snow, and he doesn't like it.

Maeve cups his cheek with her warm hand and touches her mouth to his, kissing him softly. "I'm not telling you to trust me; you barely know me. Trust _yourself_."

So he tries. He can see hazily through the single layer of thin linen—not enough to fight, but he doubts even werewolves are willingly out today. Given the choice he'd much rather have stayed in the tiny treehouse with Maeve, naked and blissfully warm. But they have a job to do, and she promised to take him to a nearby Fae clan for the night.

Unable to lean so heavily on his keen eyesight, Sinbad is forced to use other senses. He feels each step with his feet, his sense of balance, and finds that Maeve is annoyingly correct. Not only does the linen wrap ease the pain in his eyes and head, but his body learns to deal with snow much faster.

They make better time after that, pushing east, then angling north along an exposed ridge. The wind blows colder here and ice has formed around the rocks. Sinbad skids, his boots not meant for steep, icy treks, but he regains his footing quickly, watching how Maeve walks, mimicking her motions. She leans into the rise of the mountain and when her feet inevitably slip on the icy gravel she pauses, allowing the slide instead of struggling against it. She travels with the landscape rather than battling it. This is not a concept Sinbad has previously considered, but as he watches her he sees the benefit. She isn't winded despite the steep ridge and thin air, and the easy, fluid movements of her body prove she's using much less energy than he.

They reach a flatter, more forested pocket on the other side of the ridge. The sun tells Sinbad it's near midday and he's about to call a rest when Maeve's head snaps up. Her whole body tenses and she drops slightly, settling into a wary stance. Sinbad rips the linen from his eyes and they both freeze, tense, waiting. He doesn't know what alerted her but he can feel her tension, the little hairs on the back of his neck and arms rising, his breaths light and shallow.

There. Ahead and to the right, down a steep dip. A thin, high wail reaches his ears.

Maeve is off at once, he less than a heartbeat behind. They skid down the hill, the trees bigger and sturdier here, somewhat protected from the wind. Maeve stops suddenly at the top of a low cliff, and Sinbad almost barrels into her before he can slow his momentum.

"Shit!" She crouches and jumps, landing on loose, tumbled rocks about a man's height below. The wail sounds again, and now Sinbad can see its source.

Shit is right. Maeve stands on the shore of a large mountain lake he doesn't remember seeing anywhere on his map, its edges frozen solid. A child far too young to be on its own stands unsteadily in the shallows, trying to fight its way deeper. The slippery, icy rocks unbalance it and the child falls heavily. It wails again.

Sinbad drops to the shore as Maeve makes her way over to the child. "_Cá bhfuil do mháthair_?" She picks up the little dripping body.

"Is he okay?" Sinbad touches the child's trembling back.

"She." Maeve's hands work swiftly, peeling off the baby's wet leggings and woolen tunic. She swears in an unknown tongue; Sinbad doesn't know the words but her tone is perfectly clear. Her eyes scan the still lake and silent forest as she loosens her laces and slips the child under her shirt, next to her skin.

"_Cá bhfuil do mháthair_?" she asks again, holding the shivering child close. "Aoife!"

The child is somewhere between one and two years old; Sinbad doesn't know much about these things. Her dark, wet hair sticks to her icy skin and her whole body shakes.

"Where is her mother?" His eyes scan the surrounding forest as Maeve's do, but he sees nothing, hears nothing but the quiet lap of the lake under its thin film of ice.

"That's what I asked." Maeve scowls fiercely. Her chest expands with a deep breath and she yells, "Senna!" into the frozen forest.

"You know who you're looking for."

"Aye." She looks grave. "Senna wouldn't just leave her. Not now."

"You mean with all the disappearances lately."

Maeve nods. She rubs the child's cheek briskly, cups her head in a gentle hand and tips it up. She asks once more, slowly, looking directly into her eyes: "_Cá bhfuil do mháthair_?"

This time, the child responds. She frees one little white arm and points, shivering, at the lake.

"I was afraid of that." Sinbad pulls off his shirt and tucks it around the child under Maeve's vest. His boots follow and a moment later he's in the water.

The cold steals his breath, stabbing at him like knives, but he wades further out, breaking through ice to free water, then dives.

Water is his element but he's not prepared for the shocking pain of the cold, nor for the murky darkness of a silty mountain lake. It's worse than the sea after a storm, dark, nearly black, and the dirt and debris suspended in the water sting his eyes, threatening to blind him. He pushes on, fairly sure he heard Maeve shout to stop just before he dove, but he's a sailor. Water is his home. She may know mountains, but he knows this.

He pushes deeper, eyes scanning the murk, looking for movement, for the watery play of light on skin—anything. His heart hammers at his ribs, his body shocked near numbness by the cold. He might not be familiar with the cold like Maeve is, but he can sense that he won't be able to swim very long. He can hold his breath, that isn't a problem, but the cold will kill him swiftly.

Something brushes his bare foot; ordinarily he'd assume it was weedy growth, but the water is too cold for lakeweed. He turns, diving deeper, his lungs burning. He's too buoyant with full lungs and is forced to release some of his air before his body will obey, sinking into the icy darkness. Every movement takes far more effort than it should, and he's forced to concentrate on the pull of each arm, the kick of each leg, as the icy cold threatens to overtake his brain. It's too cold, too much to ask of his body.

But there, his frozen hand finds what touched him. A cloud of dark hair. He grabs, his fist almost refusing to close around a handful, and jerks.

A body drifts before him; he can see the pale blue-white skin shimmering in the murky darkness. Whether she's alive or dead makes no difference in the moment as he propels them both upward, toward the surface. His body slows; he struggles to raise them both. The pain is excruciating, and moving makes it worse. But if he stops they both die, and he's not ready to give up. Sinbad doesn't surrender.

They break the surface and vaguely through the pain Sinbad hears a shout. Hands touch him, grab at his arm. His vision swims, eyes numb. The hands aren't gentle but through the numbness swallowing his body he can't feel the difference.

"Sinbad, you idiot! You fucking idiot!" Her mouth locks with his in a bruising kiss. He can't feel it.

More hands—more than two, which makes little sense to him. But his brain is failing as his body does. His feet find slippery rocks under the water and he tries to stand, but they won't support him. He slips.

"Easy, you fool." She slips her body under his arm, supporting him with her strong, slender shoulders. "Come on. Let's get you warm. You're not allowed to die, do you hear me?"

He hears. He doesn't much want to die, either, but he's not sure he gets a choice.

An instant later, everything goes black.

* * *

"Maeve, get out of there! Do you want to kill yourself, too?" Lachlan snaps.

"You think a little cold water can hurt me?" She doesn't move from Sinbad's side. He collapsed over her shoulder, but she's strong and the water helps support his body. She doesn't like being immersed in water, but she doesn't think about that as she tries to wade toward the shore. Whether he's fully unconscious or not, Sinbad can't help her. She drags him a step, then falters, unable to support and drag him as well as keep them both upright. She stills, concentrating on keeping them balanced. Stupid, foolish man. She seethes with anger, refusing to admit that her fury is fueled by fear. He jumped into the freezing water without even considering the risk to himself, and despite the fact that Maeve would have done exactly the same, she burns with ire. Foolish brute of a southerner, he had no business diving into the damn lake. He doesn't know anything about the north. She saved his life by taking him in the previous night, and now he repays her by trying to freeze to death?

Two Fae men wade out to help them, one heaving Sinbad's body over his shoulder like a sack of grain. The other tries to pick Maeve up but she shoves him roughly away. Instead she sloshes impatiently behind Sinbad's unconscious form. He needs warmth, and he needs it fast. Senna may already be dead; Sinbad can be saved. "Don't touch me!" she barks at the soldier. "I'm not hurt! What about Senna?"

Lachlan, the captain of the queen's royal guard, hovers over the naked woman Sinbad rescued from the lake. "She's alive." Ice blue eyes, cooler and paler than Sinbad's, gleam at her. He's a beautiful man, tall, with the naturally white hair and nearly colorless complexion of his clan. "Gods above know how." He picks the woman up, his hands gentle on her frozen body.

"I'm just glad Odhran insisted I take a key with me." Maeve exits the water, shaking her boots. The leather will never be the same after an icy dunking, but she wasn't going to take the time to strip.

"Under the circumstances, so am I." Lachlan glances at the six men he brought with him through the door Maeve opened. Maeve's eyes follow. One holds Sinbad over his back, another cradles Senna's baby, wrapped in a thick woolen cloak. Part of her wants to take Aoife, but she knows the child will be well looked after. Sinbad needs her more. She touches his face, skin like ice under her gentle hands. Beautiful man. _Stupid_ beautiful man. She wills the warmth inside her to the surface, her pale hands glowing with the colors of fire, the flame within. Cautious with the temperature, needing to warm him, not burn, she strokes his slightly scruffy cheeks, runs her fingers through his wet brown hair. He groans softly but doesn't wake. The man holding him shifts, peering over his shoulder, trying to see what she's doing. He's not comfortable so close to her as she uses her flame and she knows that, but she doesn't care.

An open wooden door stands incongruously on the rocky shore of the lake. Maeve opened it with the magic key the clan chief, Odhran, insisted she take with her in case of emergency. Now she's glad he did. That open door, through which Lachlan and his soldiers came when she opened it, has probably saved three lives today—if Senna lives.

"Let's go, then." Lachlan nods at the door. "Before anything worse happens."

She follows the soldier holding Sinbad as they file through the wooden door that seemingly leads to nowhere, a door with no jamb, no wall, alone on the rocky lakeshore. They move quickly, all aware of the danger of the weather. No one knows how long Senna was in the water but they know the deadly consequences of a frozen dunking all too well.

Maeve is the last through. She closes the door behind herself and turns the gold key. As the lock engages the door vanishes, leaving them all safely on a wide wooden balcony. A chill wind tugs the wet ends of her hair; she ignores it.

"I need to get Sinbad warm." She wishes she could dispense with the soldier holding him, but she's not big enough to carry him herself.

"Get Senna and the baby to the infirmary at once," Lachlan orders, handing the woman's body to one of his soldiers. "Maeve, I don't know about that one." He nods at Sinbad.

"He's mine. I'll take responsibility for him." This isn't her clan, but it isn't Lachlan's, either. He has no right to refuse a guest she claims.

Still the captain of the guard looks uncertain. "He's human, _leannán._"

"I am, too. And don't call me that." She touches Sinbad's dangling arm. He's too cold; he needs warmth quickly, and she doesn't want to stand here arguing with Lachlan. "I'll take him myself." She'll carry him if she has to. She'll put him on one of the rolling carts the servants use. But he needs to be out of the wind, out of the cold.

"You're as Fae as you are human." Lachlan doesn't smile—he seldom does—but, though his icy eyes show his wariness, he doesn't refuse her. She doubts he'd refuse her anything. "Do you want him brought to the infirmary, too?"

"No. I said I'll take responsibility. He's not hurt, just cold."

There's an ache in his gaze she does her best to ignore. "All right, then." He nods at the man holding Sinbad's body. "Take him to her chambers and report back to me."

Relief flows through Maeve when they leave Lachlan. Sleeping with him was a mistake, but she can't take it back now. She squelches through the corridors of the clan chief's great hall, her wet boots leaving gravelly tracks on stone floors. The man holding Sinbad follows silently. Whatever he thinks, he thankfully keeps to himself.

They descend three staircases and enter the western wing of the palace before finally reaching Maeve's quarters. She hurries, anxious to warm Sinbad quickly. She can feel his lifeforce slipping away even as his body struggles to keep alive. He's remarkably strong, this one. She isn't sure whether that's what draws her to him, but at this point it doesn't really matter. He's hers, for now.

"Put him in the tub," she says to the soldier, opening the door to her private bathing room. "He needs a hot soak. Tell Lachlan you do, too."

The man inclines his head at her politely, then leaves.

Maeve is already moving before his form disappears through the doorway. She plugs the tub, thanking whatever god gave the Fae the gift of hot running water, and turns the silver tap that starts the flow.

The tub is beaten copper—not the carved alabaster it would be in Aven, the Fae capital, but she isn't really one for opulence, anyway. She opens the valve for hot water as fast as it will flow, then turns her attention to Sinbad's slumped body.

He groans again as hot water falls on his blue feet and pools, the bath filling swiftly. She unwraps his red _hijam_ and pulls his _sirwal_ inside out trying to get the cold, saturated fabric off of him. She tosses it over her shoulder; the linen falls with a wet splat on the slate floor.

Sinbad's skin has turned an odd purple color. He's too swarthy to turn properly blue, but his cheeks have gone pale under his suntan. Pulling her warmth to the surface again, she undresses and slips into the water with him.

It's awkward at first—he's mostly unconscious, his cold body a dead weight in the rapidly filling tub. She settles behind him, her back to the copper tub, and wraps herself around him. Steam hovers thick in the air, heavy and warm. She hugs him tight and urges her fire hotter, as hot as she dares against his human skin.

Maeve doesn't know what about this man has touched her so deeply. He's beautiful, certainly. But so are most Fae—inhumanly beautiful. She loves the color of his sea-bright eyes, a deeper, clearer blue than she's used to. Pretty eyes might warrant a quick fuck, but they don't explain the way she feels now as she wraps herself around him. She stops the flow of water with her toes and hugs his body tightly, immersed as deeply in the water as she can get him. Her body lights with magic the color of flame, flickering along her skin, firing against him. She rubs his chest and stomach slowly, tracing paths of warmth along his skin. Like any man he has body hair, but there's a silky feel to his she's never experienced before. Her hands follow the soft trail down from his navel, stroking his cock gently, cupping his sac, reaching down his thighs and then up over his hips.

He says he's a sailor and she believes him. His body bears the evidence of a rough, physical life—scars and calluses like a soldier's, the skin on his face roughened by sun and wind. She captures his ear gently in her mouth, sucking on the lobe. He smells good, too—clean sweat, salt, and the cold scent of the mountain.

His body twitches in her arms suddenly. He gasps and begins to shiver violently, which is a good sign. It means his body is fighting back. He hasn't given up. Not that she expected him to. There's too much fight in him for that.

She shifts her body, letting his back fall against the tub, twisting so she can straddle his hips, settle him deeper into the water. Under her, she can feel his frozen cock attempt to swell. It's not a bad idea if his body can manage it. She leans forward, pressing herself against his chest, the colors of fire playing along her wet skin. She gleams golden and red, bright yellow to deepest scarlet, her wild magic flickering like flames as she shifts and settles, wet skin to wet skin. Though his hair is silky, under his skin he's rock solid. Not bulky like the heroes of fireside tales, but hard muscle nonetheless. Desire lights in her as she presses against him. She knows what those hard muscles are capable of, and she wants it again. Wants him again.

"You're an idiot," she tells him, fairly sure he can't hear her. She's still angry at him, but that's never stopped her from fucking anyone before. Anger and desire are both flames, and so is she. Her hands slide against his skin under the water, learning the lines of his muscles, his bones. She licks the side of his throat where his pulse beats, and closes her slim, strong thighs around his hips, riding his shivers. Her mouth locks over his, kissing his cold lips, sucking firmly on them, drawing blood back into them, stimulating circulation.

"I would have thought of something better, in another moment. Something that didn't endanger us." Whether it's true or not, she chooses to believe it. It's better than admitting her fear of losing him. She isn't comfortable being so vulnerable, so she denies the fear and bites him instead, hard, low on his neck, teeth sinking into muscle.

He groans and his hands rise, fumbling, grabbing at her slick skin. Water sloshes near the rim of the tub. She ignores it, biting down, squeezing her jaw around the side of his throat. Her blunt human teeth won't break skin—not like the werewolves they fought yesterday—but she delights in knowing she'll leave a nasty mark.

His hands find her hips and tighten; he doesn't even try to stop her. She pulls away finally, licking the indentations left by her teeth before raising her eyes to his.

They're open but she doubts he's really conscious. Below her she can feel his cock swelling and she presses against it, wondering if he'll manage to fully harden so she can fuck him. Men's bodies are so fragile in the cold, human and Fae alike. She raises herself enough to slip a hand between them, wrapping her fingers around his length and stroking him gently. Icicles grow in the cold but penises shrink, balls contracting up into the body, seeking shelter from raw temperatures.

But now he's submerged in steaming water, her hand stroking his cock, his body reacting not only to her nearness but her fire magic as it melts into him, warming him, waking in him the familiar, aching burn of desire. This is a side effect of her fire magic she can't control. He would want her, seek her, ache with need of her, whether she encouraged it or not. In this case she doesn't care, wanting him just as much, if not more. He's a talented motherfucker, and she loves what he can do with that meaty cock quickly growing in her hand. Already her fingers can't close around it. Its girth stretches her narrow pussy exquisitely; she well remembers that sensation just this side of pain and oh, she wants it again. Wants to warm him, wants to fuck him, wants to love all the anger and fear out of herself, until they're both quivering, liquid messes, then fall asleep in his arms, only to wake and do it all over again.

And again.

When it comes to this strange southern sailor, she might be a little bit greedy.

He's firm in her hand, his grip on her hips bruising. She tilts her pelvis and settles lower, her hand steadying his cock, guiding the head to her weeping slit. He's still shaking, but the pull of their chemistry, the pulse of her fire magic, does the talking for him. He pulls on her hips, urging her down.

She complies, sinking slowly onto him, feeling again the delicious stretch as the thick head of his cock penetrates her, pressing into her body. No fingers have stretched her this time, but she's so slick with need that she doesn't care, loving the intensity of the aching pleasure as he fills her. She's on top and gets to set the speed, easing herself down gently, a little at a time, until her bare folds settle against the pleasant rasp of his pubic hair. He groans and wraps his arms around her tightly, pulling her against his chest. She kisses his jaw and the swell of the lip she sucked as her hips move slowly, pulling off of him just a little before sinking back down.

She's gentle with his shaking body now, no more teeth, letting her fire engulf them both. The bath water rises and falls with her rhythmic movements, flowing in waves, running over the lip of the copper tub to flood the little bathing room. It's as she imagines his ocean must be, the pulse of life running through the water as it runs through her, through him, their mixed fluids seeping into the water, the air, scenting everything with the deep, heady smell of sex. Of life. Her fire burns slowly, smoldering, deep desire fueling her sinuous movements as she lifts off that thick cock and returns to take it deep into herself. Unlike the wildfire of the night before, this is controlled, an achingly slow burn.

He moves with her, mind probably not quite conscious but body drowning in need, in her heat, her magic, her body. She concentrates on him, and knows exactly when his violent shivers cease. The feel of him sliding, pressing so deep inside her…it's raw and beautiful, and it touches something new in her, something she doesn't understand but feels deep in her core. Whether it's physical or emotional she can't quite tell, only that this slow, sensual fuck is doing something to her, something she's never felt before.

One of his hands squeezes the taut curve of her buttock, moving with her, urging her to take him slightly faster. The other winds in the mess of her red hair, pulling, tilting her head until she kisses him. He tastes like the sea, which makes no sense—salt water is a long way away. But it's there nonetheless, the tang of salt brine on her tongue as it strokes his, breathes his breath, mouths locking, parting, only to come together again. Normally she's not a big fan of deep kissing, but she can't get enough of the taste of him, the sensual slide of his tongue, the way his mouth caresses hers, somehow just as intimate as his cock buried deep within her body.

When that cock makes her come, her release isn't like a burst of fire, but like a wave, building slow within her, gathering strength deep, deep inside. She's the one shivering now, trembling with anticipation, a little afraid of the force of the orgasm that's about to engulf her. She clings to him, presses her face into the crook of his shoulder and surrenders, giving herself over to it. Like a tsunami, those waves hidden deep that hit land with brutal force, it rushes her, sweeping everything before it. She cries out, body spasming, hips rolling until his hands clamp tightly on her hips, forcing her down on his cock, holding her there, keeping her still. All she can do is surrender and feel. It crests and surges, crests and surges, her pussy clamping tight around the unyielding length of him. Pleasure explodes in her brain, sweeps down her spine, tightening her nipples, her aching, untouched clit, her overstimulated cunt. Everything is washed away, drowned in a crushing wave of sensation—pleasure, pain…love. Tears squeeze from the corners of her clenched eyes and she screams into his wet skin, sure her body can't take it, can't contain it all. She's going to combust.

Despite the overstimulation of every nerve, she still feels it when his hips buck sharply against her inner thighs and the heat of his come erupts into her, coating her cervix, her inner walls. She cries out again, hears his voice rise with hers, vaguely, as if from far away.

Slowly the pleasure ebbs. It leaves her feeling like a wrung washcloth, limp and exhausted. Her body twitches with aftershocks; his softening cock remains within her. She's too worn out to wonder about what just happened, to feel curious or afraid. Instead she tucks her head further into his shoulder and surrenders once more, this time to unconsciousness.

* * *

"How is she?"

Sorcha shrugs. "As well as can be expected, under the circumstances." She covers Senna's unconscious body with another heavy wool blanket and stands from the woman's bedside.

"I'm sorry I wasn't here. I had another to care for."

Sorcha waves away Maeve's apology. "I wouldn't have known what to do with that fire of yours anyway. Senna will live."

Maeve's burden of guilt eases slightly. She had intended to come to the infirmary and assist with Senna's care after warming Sinbad, but that plan obviously failed. Now she watches the healer brought in from Aven, unsure what next to say. She has ten million questions—about Senna, about Sinbad, even about herself—and doesn't know where to start.

Sorcha is nearly as pale as Lachlan, with the reddish tint to her blond hair that humans call strawberry. She's too old to be Maeve's sister, not quite old enough to be her mother. Her home clan lives enmeshed with the Celt village Maeve was born into, and Maeve has known her all her life.

"Lachlan said you had a human man with you. Does he need care?"

Maeve shakes her head. This much, at least, she's sure of. "He dove into the lake and pulled Senna out, but he's a southerner and not used to the cold. His body tried to shut down from shock. I stopped it."

"What was she doing in the water in the first place?"

This is an excellent question. Maeve shrugs helplessly. "I wish I knew. We found Aoife at the edge of the water alone, trying to wade in."

"That makes no sense. I don't know the woman, but no mother would leave a child so small unprotected. Not here. Not now."

"I know it." Maeve pulls at a hangnail, the small sting familiar and somewhat comforting amid all the questions they can't answer. "I assume the baby's okay? She seemed unhurt when I picked her up, and she'd only just gotten wet."

"She's fine. She's with an aunt." Sorcha's face darkens. "Lachlan told me her father's one of the missing."

Maeve can only nod. "This whole situation is a mess. When Riona called on me I thought I could help, but so far we only have more questions, not answers."

"Come sit. Senna's in no danger for now." Sorcha beckons and they leave the infirmary, crossing the palace complex and entering the large dining hall. Weak winter sunlight streams through tall leaded windows, falling on two or three dark heads. It's late afternoon but not yet time for the evening meal and few people are around.

They pour mugs of herbal tea from the thick crockery urns at the back of the room, always kept ready and reasonably warm. Maeve smells the tisane and tests it on her lips. Peppermint and chamomile—supposedly soothing, but not her favorite. It's also tepid, the kitchen staff too busy with dinner preparations to reheat old tea. She heats both mugs to a proper temperature with a light touch, and she and Senna find seats on long benches near the end of an unoccupied table.

"I didn't even know you had been sent here until Lachlan fetched me to help Senna." Sorcha blows on her steaming mug before sipping. "Why you?"

"Riona listed several reasons, all of them perfectly understandable. I think mostly because she's worried, and she knows I can take care of myself."

"Lachlan told me Senna's a skilled hunter. She should have been able to take care of herself. So should have her missing husband."

"Not like me." Maeve extends a cupped hand, kindling a flame to dance in her palm. "They carry weapons. I am one."

"True." Sorcha watches her with keen green eyes. "You smell like him, you know. This southerner."

Maeve lets the fire in her hand die and refuses to meet her friend's gaze. "I washed," she says, somewhat defensively. The Fae have keener senses than humans, by birth as well as training, and she knows anyone who gets close to her will smell Sinbad on her skin. It's impossible to hide. She helped lug his half-conscious bulk to her bed after waking in the cooling bath, dried him carefully, and covered him with as many warm blankets as she could find. Then she drained the tub and drew more hot water, scrubbing herself well. Still his scent remains.

"That's not exactly what I meant." Sorcha sounds somewhat amused but also somewhat trepidatious. "You can fuck who you please. No one here will judge you for that."

Maeve isn't so sure about that. Where she's from, humans and Fae live more or less as one people, to the point where most Celts carry some measure of Fae blood, and vice versa. But in most of the world, including the mountains they're currently sitting on, fairy and human keep well apart. Too much blood has been shed by humans for the Fae to feel comfortable in human society. They will smell Sinbad on her and know she's fucked him, and they won't like it.

"I don't mean that I smell him on you, though I do. I mean that I smell him _in_ you. You've been altered somehow."

"Pregnant?" Maeve wrinkles her nose. That would be an unwelcome development, but nothing she can't take care of with the right herbs.

"Possibly, but that's not really what I mean, either. I'm sorry. I'm not explaining myself well because I don't really know what's happened. Only that you've changed."

Yes, she has. Maeve can't explain it either, nor can she smell the difference Sorcha describes, but she feels it. Something fundamental about her has shifted—altered, as her friend said. It unnerves her. She doesn't like it.

"You're the best healer in Aven. If you don't know what's happened, who would?"

Sorcha scratches the back of her head as she thinks. "A mage, perhaps. I don't know, truly. But I do worry. Are you all right?"

Is she all right? Maeve snorts. Before the incident in the bath, she would have laughed at the question. She's always all right—more than all right. She's healthy and happy, proud of her unique status in both Fae and Celt society. She has close friends and freedom—what more could she want?

Now she's not so sure.

"Honestly? I wish I knew." She drinks her tea despite her dislike of chamomile. "I've never met anyone like him before."

"You said he's a southerner? What's he doing here?"

"Humans have been disappearing, too, from the villages around the river. One of their leaders asked him to come. So he's kind of like me." Her pretty nose wrinkles. "Except he knows _nothing_ about being up north. I had to save his life last night, took him into an _óstáin_ with me."

"Doesn't sound like much help to me." Sorcha frowns. "You say humans are disappearing, too?"

"Yeah. And it's not the wolves. I checked."

"_Mban_." Lachlan appears next to the table, moving silently, like a silver shadow. "May I sit?"

Sorcha shifts over to give him room on the end of her bench. Maeve does not. He'll smell her anyway, but she doesn't want him that close.

He sits, glacial eyes locked on her face. Pain flashes across his lovely features, sharp as a knife's edge, before vanishing under a well-schooled exterior. Only those pale eyes hold the truth.

Maeve tries not to care. She doesn't belong to him—she doesn't belong to anyone. The Fae tend to understand that better than most humans, but Lachlan has watched her for a long time, since she first traveled to Aven to meet the queen. He watched, and wanted. She gave in months ago; he's beautiful and she saw no harm. But he wants her to keep, and she won't be kept. She thought she made that clear to him, but his eyes still follow her, full of a pain she knows she caused but cannot soothe.

"What happened today?" His voice is colorless as his hair—soft and professional. He's the captain of the queen's royal guard, and Riona has tasked him with helping Maeve stop the disappearances here in the eastern mountain wilds. He takes his job as seriously as he takes everything else, and despite smelling the human man on Maeve, he'll do his duty to the last.

"I wish I knew." She stares into her empty mug, wishing for something stronger than tea. "I saw the wolves yesterday, as requested. They're not behind the disappearances."

"Werewolves don't hunt Fae," Sorcha adds, sounding almost as weary as Maeve feels.

"But they hunt humans." Maeve stares at Lachlan, refusing to back down or feel shame. She owes him nothing. "Sinbad is a southerner—an adventurer, he said? He was sent here by one of the human villages in the river lowlands. People have been disappearing there, too."

He meets her eyes, his pain unhidden but his voice flat. "I know."

"Well, it would have been nice to tell me that before sending me out to find whatever boogeyman is doing this!" She folds her arms over her chest, irritated with him, and with the clan chief Odhran, for not telling her everything.

"I'm sorry. It didn't seem important." He's quick to apologize when her fire flares, flickering in her eyes, pressing uncomfortably at his Fae senses. She feels his discomfort, though he moves not a muscle. Irritated with herself, she clamps down on the flame. He wants her enough already. She doesn't need her magic making it worse.

"Well, it's important to me. I'm human, too, as you keep conveniently forgetting."

"I have not forgotten."

She glares, but keeps tight control on her temper. Flame calls to flame, regardless of the cause. "Well, the humans sent Sinbad. He was with me this morning when I found the child trying to wade into that lake. I know her mother somewhat, and I asked where she was. Aoife pointed at the water. Sinbad jumped in before I could stop him. I used the emergency key to open a door and call for you—you know the rest."

He finally drops his gaze, shaking his head slowly. "It makes no sense. Senna is a seasoned hunter. She knows those woods as I know the palace at Aven."

"Could she not have been thinking quite clearly?" Sorcha swirls the dregs of her tea idly in her mug. The smell of food from the kitchens makes Maeve's stomach grumble. She's starving, which only fuels her irritation with everything, including herself.

"How do you mean?" Lachlan asks.

"I was told her husband is one of the missing?" Sorcha shakes her head. "Grief can make people do strange things."

"I've spoken with her at length on multiple occasions. She was afraid for her husband but more angry, and I can't believe she would do anything to endanger her child." Lachlan sounds as if he wants to believe it, his voice firm with conviction. But what are any of them supposed to think? That she would deliberately let her two-year-old daughter watch her drown herself? That she went into the lake accidentally? How? And why?

"When will she wake?" Maeve asks the healer. Questioning themselves isn't getting anywhere. They need Senna awake.

"Depends. I had one of the local healers place a deep sleep on her to force her body to rest. She couldn't stop shaking, even after her temperature rose. I worry about pneumonia developing from water in her lungs." Sorcha rubs her temples lightly, then pinches the bridge of her nose. "I want her to sleep through the night. In the morning we can lift the spell and see what happens."

"Tomorrow we should call a conference." Maeve turns to Lachlan, who looks at her uneasily. "I want _everything_ on the table this time. And I want Sinbad there."

"Odhran won't like that."

"I don't care. Whatever's happening, it's happening to Fae and human alike. We need a truce, even if just temporarily, to solve it."

"This isn't like home, _mo chailín_," Sorcha says softly. "You can't force enemies to be something that they're not."

"Sinbad isn't an enemy. He wants to solve the same problem we do. I'm not asking you to become friends with the lowlanders. I'm not even asking you to talk to them. Just him. You can trust him."

She expects Lachlan to respond with hostility but, to her surprise, he doesn't. His eyes remain sad as he inclines his head to her. "Very well, _leannán_. I do not trust the man, but I trust you. He is your responsibility."

As the captain of the guard rises and takes his leave, Maeve feels that responsibility, a heavy yoke on her shoulders. The vow is meant to keep the Fae safe from human guests who might mean them harm. Now, though, she feels the double edge, like a western broadsword. It's her responsibility to keep Sinbad safe as well.


	4. Chapter 4

**The Mountain**

Pairing: Maeve/Sinbad  
Rating: M  
Setting: Alternate  
All standard disclaimers apply

* * *

Sinbad wakes.

His mind is confused, his thinking slow, like punching through water. He feels warm—so deliciously warm—though he remembers cold, like a nightmare, colder than he's ever been before, cold beyond pain.

"Shh. It's okay."

A soft mouth touches his. He turns reflexively toward it, opening, tasting smoke and honey.

_Maeve._

His hands reach for her, finding bare skin, like hot silk. She presses her sweet body against him and he can't hold back a small groan. Her hot mouth kisses him, her body wraps around him. She's warmer than he remembers, not just warm but hot, and he presses against her, the heat of her sinking into his flesh like sunshine, seeping into him, melting him. Gods, she's perfect. So sweet. He craves her touch, her warmth, her steady strength.

"You're okay. You're fine."

Of course he is. He's always fine. Why is she telling him so?

Her body shifts away. His instantly tries to follow, but she presses his back into the softness beneath him, kissing his mouth lightly, his throat, traveling down his chest. She nibbles on his hipbone, licks the smooth line of hair trailing down from his navel. He inhales deeply when one warm hand grasps the base of his cock and her mouth opens around the head. He's in love with that mouth, the curve of her lower lip, and he forces his eyes open, desperate to watch as her lips envelop the thick head of his cock.

Countless women have done this to him countless times—women whose names and faces he doesn't remember. But never has it felt like this. His head falls back to the pillow and he swallows hard, surrendering to the sensation. She eases off his length and licks him, slow, her tongue warm and wet, lips closing in a kiss. She's gentle as she explores, her mouth learning him, his taste, his heft, how his length stretches her jaw when she takes him in again. He's sensitive and he won't last, but he senses in her tenderness that she knows this. She can be fierce as wildfire in her lovemaking but right now keeps that flame in check, touching him slowly, using her lips and tongue but no teeth and only gentle suction. His hands wind through her glorious hair, those thick red curls he loves, but he doesn't push her to take him deeper, doesn't try to guide her movements. She won't react well to that, he already knows, so he holds her gently, letting her lead.

All too soon he feels the pulsing ache in his balls intensify, growing too strong to hold back any longer. He groans softly as he comes, her mouth tight around his length, watching through half-lidded eyes as she takes all he has to give her. Honey-dark, her eyes lock with his as she releases him from her mouth and visibly swallows. It's seductive, taunting, and enough to keep him hard and aching. He pounces, knocking her to her back, settling over her and between her legs.

"Do you have any idea how kissable you are?" He bites that tempting lower lip.

"Yes." She kisses him hard though her body remains gentle, her knees bending, rising, her slim, supple thighs cradling his hips. "But it doesn't hurt to hear it again."

"Gods, woman." He kisses her mouth, tasting himself mixed with her smoky sweetness, and he loves it. One hand slips between them, finding her wet and ready. She whimpers softly when he enters her with two fingers, hips curving toward him, urging him on. He's not really sure where they are or how they got here, but neither does he care. More important is the molten heat between her legs, his fingers gliding easily into her and out again, his thumb finding and pressing against the little ruby of her clit.

"They have nothing to do with it." She nips his ear. "This is all me—and you. _Us._"

Us. Oh, he likes that. Likes it far too much, in fact. His fingers withdraw and she kisses him, her smoke-sweet taste invading his mouth as he presses his cock into her.

Her mouth on his length was divine, but nothing in the world compares to this feeling. He cries out as he sinks into her, pushing deep. No one will ever own that wild Celt spirit but he can own her body for a short while. He bites her lower lip as she surrounds him in liquid heat, squeezing him tightly. "You're mine," he groans as he pulls back only to surge forward again, his hips hard against the impossible softness of her inner thighs.

She whimpers, the sound high and sweet, her slick body moving, sliding against his. "Don't tell me things I already know." She kisses a sore spot just where his neck and shoulder meet—he must have a bruise there. Her tongue licks at his skin and her inner muscles tighten around him.

Anything—everything he is. She can have it, all of it. Just as long as she keeps kissing him, keeps moving her pelvis like that, just like that. The way she rolls her hips brings her clit in contact with his shaft; he can tell by the tightening of her sweet cunt just how much she likes that. He shifts, letting the coarse curls of his pubic hair rasp against her clit, deep pink and swollen. She cries out sharply and comes, her inner muscles clamping down, squeezing him tightly, and he follows as she takes him with her over the edge, unable to control himself, unable to stop. He spills inside her again, which he knows better than to do, but she's not stopping him and he can't dredge up the willpower to stop himself. Pleasure explodes through him, deep and visceral, as he doesn't force himself out of her exquisite heat. Right or wrong, he's made his choice.

Carefully he moves, shifting to lie next to her. She cuddles against his side, so, so hot, and he gathers her into his arms, holding her close. His body craves her heat, but it's more than that. _She's_ more than that. He needs her close, needs her near, in a way he can't explain. All he knows is that he feels it.

She strokes his hair with lazy fingers, running them through the messy brown strands. One soft fingertip touches his ear, traces the firm line of his jaw. He turns his head with her gentle touch, mouth meeting hers softly. Her fingers continue their gentle caress, trailing down his throat, again over the sore spot near his shoulder.

"I didn't think you'd have the energy for that." She kisses him lightly, her hot palm stroking his cheek. "You keep surprising me, Sinbad."

Good. Because she keeps surprising him, too. He opens his eyes and just looks at her.

Such a beauty. He's used to a rainbow of dusky colors, lovely warm brown skins from sandy-tan to nearly black. He's never lain with a woman so fair before. In his world, pale skin means sickness, but Maeve is anything but. She's hale and strong, a skilled fighter, but soft now as he holds her close, liquid and replete. He loves the heavy lashes that frame her honey eyes, thick and dark, the startling colors that play over her milky skin as he touches her. She isn't uniformly cream, but a waterfall of pinks, from the pale seashell color of her nipples to the warm rose of her well kissed mouth. He slides his palm slowly over her flat stomach, slightly concave just now, and cups her bare mound, stroking her velvety outer lips gently with his thumb. She's the first woman he's touched who removes her pubic hair, and he loves the silky, sensual feel of her bare skin here, how tender she is, how easily her liquid arousal coats her, allowing his fingers to glide against her, slippery-sweet, so soft. He presses between the cleft of her outer lips gently, her clit right there, hidden but easy to find, hard and sleek against his fingertip. She sucks in a breath but doesn't move.

His head drops as he strokes her clit, nose nuzzling her breasts before he takes a hard little pink nipple in his mouth. She's fire at her core and he strokes her, urging that fire hotter, rekindling the banked flame. He nibbles lightly, using his teeth without causing pain, sucking at her nipple as his hand moves slowly between her legs, fingers swirling gently, caressing her clit, her sensitive bare folds, so slick, velvet-soft. His cock is hard again and he wants her, but he wants this, too. To love her whole body, to touch her, to really look at her. She's so beautiful. He wants all of her—everything.

His body shifts and she lets him move, watching him silently with those big dark eyes, unashamed by her nakedness, his desire. He moves both hands between her slim thighs and presses them apart, then slides his hands under her, grabbing her buttocks, tilting her toward him so she's fully exposed.

She glistens, wet with her liquid desire and his semen, her swollen folds deep pink, the flesh at her entrance red with want and use. Fascinated, he strokes her so-sensitive folds, gentle and slow, watching as her stomach flutters with her shallow breaths, as the strong muscles of her inner thighs shift just under the surface of her silken skin. He lowers his head and licks her aching clit, just once, sliding the flat of his tongue through her slick-soft folds and over that hard, sensitive little bead. She moans softly, one hand rising to stroke his stubbled cheek. Her taste melts on his tongue, sweet woodsmoke and honey.

"Why don't you taste like other women?"

The words are out before he can stop himself. They're not wise, but desire slows his brain, his bloodflow focused elsewhere.

She takes no offense. "I don't know." Her short nails scratch lightly at his stubble. He loves it. "Nobody knows why I am the way I am."

It doesn't really matter. All that matters right now is the touch of her on his skin, the smell of her strong in the air. He licks her again, slow, loving the sweet smoke of her. He can taste himself, too, faintly. It's incredibly arousing, knowing he spilled inside her, tasting the truth of it on his tongue as he licks her moisture, her sweetness mixed with the salt of his seed. He slides two slick fingers into her, watching her body stretch to accept him, hearing her low, deep inhalation as he fills her. He curls his fingers inside her, pressing up, and can see the movement low on her abdomen, can see as he presses on her inner walls. He sucks in his own breath, surprised by how erotic it feels. She's tall and strong but not big—he can almost span her waist with his large hands. For the first time he wonders at this, why women are the ones to take big men into their smaller bodies. Why women carry growing babies and struggle so to birth them though men are bigger, conceivably stronger. It doesn't really make much sense.

But, whether it makes sense to him or not, this is how life works. He withdraws his fingers gently from Maeve's body, his cock unable to wait any longer. He pulls her closer, spreads her legs further to watch as he enters her. This is how life works. This is what male and female bodies do, what they demand, as constant and ineffable as the tide. He presses his cock into her, hearing her swift intake of breath, the hint of a wanting whine barely voiced. She takes him, her body yielding sweetly, stretching around his thick length as he pushes deeper. She may be smaller than him, but it doesn't matter. Her very femaleness means this is what she was made to do.

And she likes it, which is perhaps the more salient observation. He presses deep, as deep as he can in this position, and holds himself there for a long moment, the exquisite feeling of her heat surrounding him, the intensity of sensation, of being so close to her—deep, deep inside her. He lowers himself over her and licks her cheek, kisses her mouth when her head turns to him. He breathes in as she exhales, her breasts pressed against his chest, his body hair rasping softly against her hard little nipples. He's never felt so close to anyone before. His hand strokes her wild red curls, touches the tempting curve of her lower lip. Her honey eyes hold so much—he just hopes he has the translation right.

She kisses him again, slow and sensual, her mouth hot, her sweet cunt hotter. "Move," she whispers. This, at least, needs no translation.

He does.

Slow, long strokes, slipping all but the swollen head out of her before gliding back in. She's liquid fire below him, echoing his languorous movements, her slender hips rolling as he drives in and back out, finding and keeping the angle that presses inside just where she likes, his mouth licking, nipping her lips, before she settles her mouth against his, kissing him deeply.

When he comes this time, pressing up into her, holding himself deep, it feels as if the ocean has taken him and he willingly succumbs to the tidal wave of pleasure, of her, of what feels like everything he's ever wanted. Her internal muscles milk him, pulling at his shaft as she comes undone around him and he swallows her sharp cry. So beautiful. So perfect. She's so much more than any other woman, and he knows, deep in his bones, that he loves her. Not just that tempting lip. Not just her tight, welcoming sheath. All of her, everything she is. And it's his job now to protect that love, protect her—to keep her close, and make her understand that she belongs with him.

His arms wrap around her tightly and he holds her to him, rolling them until he's on his back, her slick body astride him, curled like a satisfied cat on his chest. He strokes her damp red curls, the graceful line of her spine, loving the feel of her hot skin under his hands. They have work to do and he knows this; he's not a shirker. But part of him wishes he could keep her here, like this, forever. He wants to tell her how much he loves her, wants her to understand what she means to him, but reality keeps his mouth shut. They've known each other such a short time and he has no idea how she might react. He suspects she's not the sort of girl who likes to be held too tight.

Sighing softly, he buries his face in her bright curls and breathes her in, then opens his eyes and, for the first time since waking, really looks around.

They're in a snug little room, and though he still has vague memories of searing, painful cold, right now he's deliciously warm. Obscenely warm. The walls around them are rich, golden wood, the floors pale green slate. They lie on a tall bed made of much paler wood, silver-grey rather than golden-brown, the softest linens he's ever felt rubbing against his skin. Heaps of heavy wool lay messily on the end of the bed and the floor—blankets tossed away at some point during their coupling. He digs his fingers into the corners of his eyes and rubs hard.

"You don't know where you are, do you?" Her voice is gentle.

"No." And ordinarily that would piss him the hell off, but after waking the way he did, he just can't find the anger.

"I didn't think so."

She's steady next to him as he sits up, moving neither to help him nor to get away. He rubs his messy hair and his cheeks, thinking back, trying to dislodge the hazy memories that bob like flotsam on the surface of his mind. He wants to remember, but they slip from his fingertips every time he gets close.

"Do you remember the lake?" She sits up next to him, unconcerned with her own nakedness, watching him with those steady brown eyes.

Lake…yes, he remembers. Remembers jumping down onto the rocky shore, remembers Maeve cradling the lost child under her clothes, warming its little body with her fire. He remembers her asking the child where its mother had gone, and a little hand pointing disconsolately at the water.

Water is his element. He remembers going in.

And now he remembers the pain. His body shudders at the memory of that glacial cold, how it tore through him like knives. It made everything difficult—moving, thinking. He shivers even now, remembering that feeling, remembering how sure he was that the cold was going to kill him. That he was going to die.

"Shh. It's okay now." Maeve's fire-hot body presses against him and he wraps his arms around her gratefully, skin to skin, holding her close as her arms slip around his shoulders, hugging him tight. Her heat eases the pain of the memory, the shock of that cold water. But it doesn't free any more memories, doesn't explain where they are or how they got here.

"You pulled me out, didn't you?" he whispers into the curve of her shoulder.

"With some help." She kisses his temple, then gently extricates herself from his arms. "Come on," she says, climbing off the tall bed and tugging on his hand. "I'll explain, I promise. But can I do it while we wash? I'm starving and we have to get clean before we can go eat."

Sinbad lets her pull him from the bed. He's starving too, now that she mentions it, and his legs feel weak as they take his weight. Such a short swim shouldn't have tired him so much. He raises a hand to the sore spot on his throat and rubs it idly. "Why do we have to bathe first?"

"Because the Fae have keener senses than we do. Do you really want everyone around you to know you were just fucked?"

"Considering who did the fucking, I don't care if the whole world knows." He closes his arms around her and hears again the low, sweet sound of her laugh.

"Are all you southerners so crude, or is it just sailors?" She laughs up at him, honey-dark eyes sparkling. He loves that laugh and the color it brings to her fair skin, pinking her cheeks and the tops of her ears. "Come on. Explanations and hot water first. Then food."

"Your northern priorities seem very backward to me," he grumbles, but follows her into her bathing room. There's a small, round looking glass mounted to the wall by the door, and he peers into it with curiosity as he passes, having only seen his own reflection in anything but water a handful of times. He freezes in front of the glass, hand rising to touch the red-violet bruise on the side of his throat. "Maeve?"

"What?" She's started water flowing into a large beaten copper tub through some sort of piping system. Ordinarily he would be fascinated, but now he only raises an eyebrow at her as he taps the twin semicircular marks where his neck meets shoulder.

"Can you explain to me why it matters what we smell like if I'm sporting a bite like this?"

She grins unrepentantly, rising slightly to kiss him as he turns to her. "Let's just say it's a northern thing. Your people think mine are heathens, after all."

He locks his arms tightly around her waist and kisses her hard. "I don't know about the rest of your people but you, girl, are _definitely_ a heathen."

She licks his stubbled cheek. "You love it."

He really, really does.

* * *

"Wait a minute. If you have magic keys that can open doors to anywhere, why did we spend last night in a treehouse?"

Maeve rolls her eyes. "Because using the keys takes a lot of power. I mean a _lot_ of power. They're only for royal business or emergencies. And it wasn't last night, it was the night before."

Sinbad doesn't like that he's lost a night. He doesn't like the thought of lost memories, and he particularly doesn't like losing memories of time spent with Maeve. He loves her—that much he can admit to himself. But he doesn't know how long this quest will last or what will happen when it ends. They may not have much time, and he hates the thought of losing any of it.

They sit in a crowded dining hall, wooden walls and tall windows towering above them. Sinbad isn't entirely sure where his own clothes went, but the dark leather trousers and loose linen shirt Maeve provided are warm and extremely comfortable, and the leather vest has a collar that hides the bite on his throat. He's also grateful that he's dressed like the rest of the people around him. It makes him feel just a little less out of place.

Never in his life did Sinbad ever think he would be seated at breakfast in a crowd of fairies. Maeve seems perfectly at ease, but he feels a little uncomfortable. They're the only two humans as far as he can tell.

And the fairies—the Fae, as Maeve insists they prefer—don't look as Sinbad thought they would. On first glance they look like any other locals of this mountain region: black-haired and black-eyed, skin pale but olive-tinted. But there's an inhuman, luminous beauty to them that would turn heads in any human village, and the tops of their ears tilt backwards in a gentle point. He touches his own softly rounded ear surreptitiously, and looks to see the human curve of Maeve's.

"Quit poking at your ears. They don't have to look at you to know you're human, they can smell you perfectly well."

At first he wants to ask what humans smell like, but swiftly changes his mind. He doesn't actually want to know. "They don't have wings," he whispers.

Maeve nearly chokes on her drink. Inhaling deeply, she favors him with a dark look over the rim of her mug. "Don't ever mention wings again. Unless you want to be tossed back into the lake." She makes a face. "That idiot Pliny. Nobody ever assumed Fae had wings until him."

Sinbad wonders what his scientist Firouz would say about Maeve calling Pliny the Elder an idiot. Firouz doesn't believe fairies ever existed, so his response would surely be amusing.

"If it makes you feel any better," Maeve continues, sipping at the hot tisane in her mug, "they're as weirded out by you as you are by them."

"I'm not weirded out." He wrinkles his nose at her phrase and tries to concentrate on breakfast. He really is starving. Thankfully the Fae seem to eat the same things humans do. He and Maeve filled plates and bowls from the serving line and then found a place to sit near the end of a long table. The morning is new and conversations around them muted due to the early hour. He eats barley gruel with cardamom and honey, thick slices of fried chevon, and hot bread and butter. Some of these are northern novelties—southerners do not eat such high, leavened bread, or any butter—but not exclusive to the Fae. He's also grateful for the hot herbal tea they all seem to drink in copious amounts.

"You are too. And you have every right to be." She lets her wooden spoon fall against her empty bowl. "We Celts call it culture shock. When you go somewhere else and suddenly you're the only one like you."

Sinbad frowns. "I'm a sailor. I've been doing that since I was ten."

"Was that when you first went to sea?" She smiles. The dining hall is not well lit, the light through the huge windows weak in the early winter morning, but when she smiles he swears it's suddenly midsummer.

"Yeah. My tutor said I couldn't look for a place as a cabin boy until I had all my adult teeth." He grins. "My older brother, ah, helped things along, as it were."

She snorts. "He totally hit you in the mouth."

"And I had to pay him good money to do it." Sinbad chuckles at the memory. He misses his crew—Doubar the most.

"Where is he now?"

"I left him with the rest of my crew down in Ralgorōd, helping them with their defenses. He's strong as an ox but not the swiftest. I figured it would be better if I came up first."

"You're very protective of him."

"And he of me. He just knows better than to hold on too tight."

"I think that's easier with men." She sets her mug down. "Anyway, you have nothing to worry about. No one here will hurt you. They're just curious. The lowlanders never climb so high."

"Is that why you laughed at my map? Because it was drawn by people who didn't know what they were doing?"

"Pretty much," she agrees, grinning.

"I noticed that damn lake wasn't on there."

"Nope. And it's a _big_ lake. Not the sort of thing a cartographer worth his salt would miss."

"What I don't understand is why that woman was in the lake to begin with."

"That's the question we'd all like answered." Maeve's lovely face sobers. "The healers are going to take the sleep off of her this morning. Once she wakes, hopefully she'll be able to tell us."

"I'm glad she survived, anyway. I didn't know when I found her whether she was alive or dead. Honestly, I didn't care at that point."

"I know." Maeve frowns at him. "You shouldn't have gone into the water like that. You could easily have died, too."

"I'm a sailor."

Her frown deepens. "Don't sailors tend to stay out of the water? You know, the good ones, anyway?"

She's pissed off and purposefully insulting him, but Sinbad has to chuckle. He's aware of her ferocity, her skill as a fighter, but right now he finds her ire incredibly cute. She's angry because he put himself at risk. That thought warms him inside. "I wasn't going to wait around with a mother's life on the line. Besides, I had a bonfire waiting on the shore for when I got back."

He means her, of course, and she knows it. She makes a face at him. "You're just lucky I chose to go after you. You wouldn't have made it back alone."

"You went in the lake, too?" a female voice pipes in. Sinbad turns his head to watch as a woman sits next to Maeve holding her own mug and bowl. She has the distinctive pointed ears of the Fae but otherwise looks more like Maeve than the people around them. They share a similar complexion, and the older woman's blond hair has a reddish tint to it. Her pale green eyes open wide as she stares at Maeve. "You? You hate water!"

Maeve's scowl is fierce. "There wasn't exactly time to spare. I opened the door and yelled for Lachlan, then followed where Sinbad had gone."

Sinbad narrows his eyes as he watches the two women interact. The older woman looks shocked. He wonders why. Maeve knew the dangers of that lake far better than he, so her choice to follow him in wasn't nearly so reckless. Besides, cold doesn't affect her. She's…special. He doesn't know the words to explain it, but at her core, she's fire. She has some sort of tie to the element, and it keeps her warm even in the coldest environments. There's no reason she should have feared going into that water.

Unless…

He stares at her accusingly. "You can't swim."

Blazing eyes turn on him. "I can too!" She hesitates. Her fire flickers. "Sort of."

"You can't. You're sitting here spitting mad at me for jumping in that lake, and you did the exact same thing, except you can't swim!"

Granted, he hasn't known her very long, but he's never seen her more furious. She seems to swell with anger, though she physically grows no bigger. As he stares, little flickers of fire spill down her hair. At first he thinks he's imagined it, but one falls to the table and smolders, a tiny ember, until the older woman slaps her pewter plate over it, snuffing the spark.

"That's enough, Maeve! He's only telling the truth, and you're getting everyone here worked up over nothing," the woman snaps.

Sinbad grits his teeth, the muscles in his jaw tightening. He's not as quick to anger as Maeve, but he's furious with her, too. What was she thinking, following him into the water when she can't swim? Backup was coming, she'd called it herself.

Without his permission, the image of a laughing little girl with dark braids invades his mind—Leah. He hates any reminders of the drowned girl and what happened to her, his inability to save her. He shakes his head hard to banish the visions of long ago and glares at the woman seated across from him. Leah was an innocent little thing, pretty and demure, the proper child of noble parents. Maeve is none of these things. She seethes with barely controlled anger, sparks of fire still lighting here and there in the wild fall of her bright red curls. She looks every bit the barbarian Celt she is, creamy skin pink with the fire of her anger, and he's not sure what she might do without the older woman at her side ordering her to calm down. They are nothing alike, Maeve and Leah, but the fear that squeezes his heart feels the same.

And gods, no matter how inappropriate, he wants her. His cock is swollen, pressing against the restrictive crotch of his northern trousers, and desire for the furious girl burns through him. They sit in a hall full of people but he doesn't care. He'd take her now, if he dared fight her fury. In another moment he might anyway.

Dark eyes lock with his, the honey gone, replaced with the fire at her core. She's so very angry—and she wants him. Wants him desperately. He's no Fae but he can feel the desire spilling from her, can smell even through her clothes as she moistens, her emotions screaming mad, her body begging and desperate She balances on a knife's edge and he holds his breath, wondering what she will choose. Trying to kill him seems a distinct possibility. Fucking him senseless does, too.

The hall is silent, all heads turned their way. Sinbad doesn't care.

She snaps. Her palms slam down on the wooden tabletop with bruising force. "I _hate_ you!" She rises swiftly from the table. She's as beautiful and frightening as a firewhirl; Sinbad can't breathe. She turns, her hair a blaze of true flame for a moment, and storms from the hall.

Silence. Three heartbeats. Six.

A spoon drops.

The crowd chuckles quietly, and the tension slowly begins to ebb. People return to their muted conversations, and Sinbad finally exhales.

A soft laugh sounds from the older woman across the table. "She doesn't hate you, you know."

He inhales, exhales. His lungs still work. Maeve is gone, but her smoky-sweet scent lingers. "Could have fooled me."

"You wake the fire in her more than most. That's interesting."

Is it? Terrifying seems like a better word. He looks to the doorway Maeve disappeared through.

"I wouldn't go after her just yet. Odhran would be upset if she burned down his house."

"I wasn't planning on it." Definitely not. Maeve needs some time to calm down, and so does he. Memories of losing Leah don't put him in a good mood. He stares at his empty dishes. Maeve is nothing like that innocent child, but he knows what kindled the memory. The girls are different but the fear the same—the fear of someone who can't swim going in the water. The fear of being left alone all over again, losing someone he loves. What he feels for Maeve is terrifying in its strength. He can't lose her, he can't. Even so soon after meeting her, he knows this. He survived losing Leah. But this time, this time he won't. He can't.

Yet she went into the water anyway. She went in after him, despite the fact that water is inimical to fire. She jumped in to save him anyway.

He loves her for it.

He hates her for it.

He drops his head and rubs his face with his palms. It's early morning and he's already exhausted. And despite the exhaustion, his body still burns for her. His cock throbs, his body hungry, wanting. But she's not here, and he knows better than to go looking for her even without the warning.

"I'm Sorcha," the older woman says, sounding amused.

"Sinbad." He drops his hands and nods at her. "Sorry about that."

She waves away his apology. "That? Please. I've seen her become nothing but a ball of flame. Her control is improving, believe it or not."

"You know her? More than…" He gestures around him, at the Fae all carefully not looking his way.

"Oh, aye," the woman says with Maeve's lilting accent. "We come from the same clan, near Daire, away in Eire."

Sinbad shifts on the bench, and winces. Oh, that wasn't a good idea.

Sorcha looks at him sympathetically. "That's a side effect of Maeve's fire she can't control. Don't feel bad. All the men and half the women in here feel the same."

He eyes the woman across from him, unsure whether to laugh or be offended. After a moment he chooses laughter. "I'm sorry. I really am. She drives me crazy."

"She drives everyone crazy. Always has. That's just how she is." Sorcha picks up her mug and sips.

Sinbad considers the woman across from him. Thus far she's the only Fae willing to talk to him. She also knows Maeve better than these others do. Maeve may have grown up among the Fae but she doesn't live in these eastern mountains and these people are strangers to her. She was sent here by their queen to help them so he imagines they treat her better than they treat him, but they don't know her. Sorcha does.

"Were you sent here to help find all the missing people, too?" he asks.

"Indirectly, I suppose. Lachlan brought me through a door yesterday to help with poor Senna. I'm a healer."

That makes sense. She and Maeve are both strangers here, then, almost as much as he is.

A man who looks even more out of place than Sorcha enters the room. He's the color of crushed ice, his hair long and colorless, braided tightly down his back. He's as beautiful as the Fae around him, but his features are sharper, narrower, reflecting a yet more northerly background. His nostrils widen for a moment as he catches Maeve's lingering scent. His head turns and settles unerringly on Sinbad and Sorcha and he crosses to them swiftly. Pale, pale blue eyes consider Sinbad for a long moment, but it's Sorcha he finally speaks to.

"What did you do to her?"

"Calm yourself, man. No one did anything to her. You know she lights easier than pitch in summer."

Sinbad knows who this is, and instantly doesn't like him. He also knows from the flint in the man's eyes, the slight downturn of his pretty mouth, that he doesn't like Sinbad either.

"Lachlan, meet Sinbad." Sorcha looks greatly amused. Sinbad's glad at least someone is.

"We met." The captain of the queen's royal guard isn't round like Doubar or bulky with muscle like Rongar. He's lithe and light, thinner than Sinbad, but the sailor doesn't let that deceive him. He has no doubt that the man can fight, and fight well. The civilization that raised such a dangerous creature as Maeve would never elevate a weakling to captain of the royal guard.

"You saw his unconscious body briefly." Sorcha hides a snicker. "That's not much of a meeting."

Sinbad doesn't like the ice-white Fae, but Dim-Dim hammered courtesy into him from an early age. He stands and extends his right hand, offering his palm.

Lachlan stares at it for a long moment. Maeve has said that the Fae have better senses than humans, and Sorcha's recent comments bear that out. He wonders what the captain of the guard can sense from him. Does Maeve's scent still linger on his skin, despite her insistence that they wash? He hopes so.

Seconds tick by. Sinbad doubts Lachlan will take his hand but finally he does. It's a brief clasp with no warmth to it, though also no threat. What that means, Sinbad isn't sure. Usually men use handshakes as a way to gauge an opponent's strength, bearing down hard, signaling for the other to back off. Lachlan does not. He touches Sinbad's skin no longer than necessary, disengaging quickly.

"How is Senna this morning?" Lachlan asks Sorcha, turning away from Sinbad.

"We lifted the sleep from her about an hour ago, but I won't force her to wake before her body is ready."

The iceman, as Sinbad decides to call him privately, frowns. "We need to hear from her before we send Maeve out again. I won't risk her."

"And I won't risk a patient." Senna drinks her tea, unconcerned with Lachlan's impatience. "Senna has a two-year-old child, and her husband's gone. I refuse to risk orphaning a child if I don't have to."

"Where's the harm in waking her?" Lachlan shifts his body weight from one leg to the other, a swift, restless movement. "She can go back to sleep after. We need answers."

"Pneumonia. She hasn't started coughing, and I don't want her to."

Part of Sinbad wants badly to offer Firouz's assistance. He was orphaned around Aoife's age and would hate to see that happen to another child. Firouz's medical knowledge is unorthodox, but Sinbad trusts the man with his own life—and, more importantly, the lives of his crew. He almost voices the offer, but stops himself quickly. Sorcha may take it as an insult to her own skill, and the last thing he wants is to alienate the only Fae willing to talk to him.

"I thought you drained her lungs."

"We did. There's still a risk."

Lachlan's so-light eyes seem to pale even further. "We need to know what she knows."

Sorcha's index finger taps slowly against her mug. She tilts her head to the side, considering. Lachlan probably has higher rank, Sinbad guesses, but Sorcha is older. If he's learned anything about healers from watching Firouz, it's that they don't give a shit about rank when a patient's life is at risk. He doubts the woman will back down.

"There may be a way," she says slowly. "I can't make any promises."

"What will you need?" Lachlan's voice is clipped.

"Maeve, and a mage if there's one to be had."

The iceman considers. "Will a hedge witch do? I'd have to fetch a mage, and we already opened two doors yesterday."

"A hedge witch will be fine, so long as he's not green as beech bark." She rises. "Sinbad, you can come with me to the infirmary. Best not to wander under the circumstances. Maeve will find her way there once she cools down."

"What did you do to her?" Lachlan asks again. This time he faces Sinbad, those unnerving pale eyes unblinking.

Sinbad really, really wants to answer with a smart remark. The way the iceman tries to ignore him grates on his nerves, and he doesn't like how the man says Maeve's name, like he owns her. Sinbad is in the soldier's territory and has no one to back him in a fight, so he holds his tongue. But he can't resist rubbing the sore spot on his neck, shifting the collar of his vest. Lachlan's ice-blue eyes follow his movement; when he sees the mark, they turn nearly white.

"I accused her of not knowing how to swim," Sinbad says, keeping his voice as neutral as possible.

"Which is mostly true." Sorcha can see the bite Maeve left on him, too, but she says nothing about it. "Girl's like a cat in that sense. Hates water unless it's steaming hot and in a basin." She motions toward the door with her head, urging Sinbad out of the soldier's presence. "You find me my hedge witch, Lachlan, and we'll see what we can see."

Sinbad follows her from the dining hall, suspecting he's just made an enemy.


	5. Chapter 5

**The Mountain**

Pairing: Maeve/Sinbad  
Rating: M  
Setting: Alternate  
All standard disclaimers apply

* * *

Maeve paces the corridor outside the dining hall. She feels like a caged animal here, and hates it. At home on her island or in Aven, the Fae capital, she can go where she pleases, when she pleases. Often when she's upset she takes a horse for a fast ride, but here in the mountains that's impossible. The landscape is too steep, the air too thin, for even the hardy little Mongolian steppe horses so valued in the east. She's also chained to Odhran's palace until Lachlan gives her leave to return to her work in the wilds, and she chafes at the restriction. Now that Sinbad is out of danger she wants to be on the move again, not cooped up inside walls of wood and stone.

Lachlan won't like Sinbad when they meet. Maeve doesn't like him much herself at the moment. She's furious at the accusatory way he glared at her, those pretty eyes suddenly cold as iron, when he realized she can't swim. What business is it of his? She's fire; she doesn't _do_ water. It doesn't hurt her, but the feeling of being submerged is uncomfortable and just…disturbing. She's not a fish. Baths are fine as long as they're steaming hot, but she has no interest in learning how to swim.

As a sailor, Sinbad likely can't understand how she feels. She gets that. But it doesn't excuse his anger. He doesn't own her. He has no say in what she chooses to do. Besides, both he and Senna could have drowned or frozen to death if she hadn't gone after him. Lachlan and his soldiers were on their way, but when water turns deadly seconds count.

She paces back along the corridor, noticing but not caring about the wide berth she's given by passersby. She's still fuming mad, which means being around her is uncomfortable, especially for men. They know better than to grab her, try to touch her, despite the provoking nature of her fire magic. Plenty of the palace's inhabitants are suffering from blue balls but she can't help it and, at the moment, she really doesn't care.

From the direction of the dining hall, Sorcha's voice meets her ears. Maeve turns. She crosses her arms over her chest and watches as the healer and Sinbad approach.

He's really far too pretty. Maeve has spent her life among the inhumanly beautiful Fae, but for some reason this human man keeps catching her eye, holding her attention. She loves his sharply defined jaw, his crooked teeth. She especially loves his rough hands, and what he does with them. How he holds her. Pushes those long fingers up inside her at just the right angle… She hisses low, feeling her magic spark once more. Sorcha and Sinbad haven't reached her yet but he tenses, feeling her fire. He doesn't have the keen senses of the Fae, but he's uniquely responsive to her presence, and her heat. This is…unexpected. It's not just a result of fucking her; none of her previous lovers developed any special sensitivity.

Sinbad sees her before Sorcha does. She watches him, arms crossed over her chest, wondering what, if anything, he'll do. His cock is hard; she can see its outline against his leather trousers, much tighter than his blue _sirwal_. She's still angry with him, but that's never stopped her from fucking anyone before. It didn't stop her from fucking him last night, in fact. His pretty blue eyes, just the color of the sea on a sunny day, glitter at her. She feels almost as if he's daring her to act.

As if she needs any provocation.

"You." She steps forward briskly as Sinbad and the healer approach. "We need to talk." She reaches out, her hand tangling in the soft linen shirt over his belly. She wants to touch him all the time, which isn't normal for her. She likes men and she likes sex, but controlling herself was never a problem before. Not until Sinbad.

He grabs her hand, pulling it from his clothes, holding it firm in his. Her eyes narrow at him and her anger flares, her magic pulsing. He can feel it; his hand squeezes around hers hard. He's wound just as tight as she is, and she can feel the anger leaking from him along with his desire. He wants her, wants her badly, but he's also seething.

"Come to the infirmary when you're done," Sorcha says. "If there's anything left of the palace by then, that is." She rolls her eyes and continues on her way.

Maeve barely hears. She turns down a small service corridor, Sinbad following, refusing to let go of her hand. She can feel his presence behind her, can smell his scent of salt and sea air. It makes no sense. He's a sailor, yes, but they're leagues from any ocean. She pushes open the door to one of the many pantries supplying the palace kitchen. This one is full of barrels and huge bags of grain; it smells like barley and wheat and dust.

Sinbad moves swiftly, before she realizes what he's doing. He slams the door behind them and presses her back against it, pinning her with his bigger body. His mouth finds hers in the sudden darkness. She's searing hot as he kisses her hard, holding her head with one hand, the other locked at her waist.

She's not used to being held still and her anger burns. Not even Lachlan, who would keep her if he could, dared pin her down. She pushes back against him but he's a wall of solid muscle pressed hard against her, unyielding.

Sinbad was mostly unconscious the night before and didn't see how the colors of fire flickered across her skin, but he sees it now. She glows gold-orange, flickers of yellow and deeper red bursting and fading across her skin, as if she really is made of fire. Most men would be terrified, but if he feels fear it doesn't show. He kisses her hard, pressing her into the door, keeping her still with his body. His mouth locks with hers brutally hard, his anger as sharp as hers.

"I'm not afraid of you, woman." He bites her lower lip.

Maeve's fingers dig into the meat of his shoulders. She's leaving bruises and she doesn't care. She could break free were she willing to injure him, but she retains enough control over her fire to stop herself. He's not hurting her, not really. But she's not used to being immobilized and she doesn't like his presumption. "You should be," she growls, jerking her lip away from his teeth. It stings, and her fire flares hotter. They're alone for the moment; she doesn't even try to tamp it down.

"Why? What are you going to do? Brand me?" He's taunting her. He should really know better by now. She could brand him if she wanted—sear her fingerprints into his skin, a mark that would last forever. Part of her rather likes that idea, in fact. Then a part of him would always be hers. She tips her head back against the door, appraising him in the flickering light of her fire. Fuck, he's so pretty. Too pretty to permanently mark, though she likes the bite she left on his throat, just a shadow in the fitful light.

"I already did." She turns her head and licks his bruise.

"You like that thing way too much. Do you want one of your own?" He drops his head to breathe against her smooth throat, lips just touching her skin. She shudders, wanting more, wanting him. If he does bite her, she won't stop him. His lips graze her throbbing pulse point, pressing a kiss just there, holding still where she can feel the beat of her blood against his mouth. It's oddly intimate, his breaths hot and harsh as he inhales her scent, leaving his own. He is marking her, in a very different way. Another human probably wouldn't be able to smell the difference, but every Fae around them will.

She knows he loves the way she smells, the way she tastes. All of her lovers do; it's part of who she is, yet another aspect of her magic she can't control. For the first time, she wishes she were different, more like other women. Then she would know that Sinbad was truly attracted to her, and not merely reacting to her fire. She never cared before but now, with his mouth pressed so intimately against the pulse in her throat, she does. She's still mad at him, but fuck, she loves him.

And now she's mad at herself, too. Why not Lachlan, or one of the men back home? Why this southern adventurer? He's not the type to stick around, and she'll never ask him to. It's not fair to either of them. Angry tears sting her eyes. She blinks them furiously away and drops her hands to unlace his trousers. She can't keep him, but for now, right now, he's hers, and she wants him.

He groans in relief as his trapped cock springs free. He's not used to such restrictive clothing and she imagines it could get uncomfortable. He sucks lightly on her pulse point before moving, his mouth burning a path along her jaw, back to her lips. He licks her lower lip, then pulls it into his mouth, sucking hard. His hands fumble with her trousers, impatience making him clumsy. She wears hers skin-tight, and he curses as he finally peels them from her.

"Can't you wear skirts like other women?"

"In your dreams." She bites the lobe of his ear and slips her arms around his shoulders, holding herself steady as he grabs her bare thighs, lifting her, pressing her back hard against the door behind her.

"No. In my dreams you're wearing me. Nothing else." He enters her with one hard thrust.

Her fingers tighten, digging into the muscle of his shoulders. She's slick and wanting but unprepared to take all of him at once, and she tenses around him, sucking in a tight breath, digging into him with her fingers, her heels, as he stills inside her, panting. It's raw and real, and she whimpers as her body clenches around him. She's never been manhandled quite like this before. Part of her wants to be outraged, but another part of her loves it. She's angry and wants to lash out, but full of other emotions, full of him, she's not sure she remembers exactly what made her so mad.

He remains still inside her, his body trembling as he presses her hard into the door. His control is as shaky as hers—in another moment one or both of them will lose it.

"You risked yourself." His hips shift, his cock throbbing within her. It hurts so fucking good. "You can't swim, but you went into that damn lake anyway. There was no _fucking_ need for you to do that."

Are they still fighting about that? She squeezes around his cock inside her. She wants him to move, to fuck her, to work this anger out of both of them. He has her pinned and she can't move much, but she shoves her pelvis against his with a rolling little tilt and deliberately breathes in his face, smoke and honey, taunting him with her fire. "There was every need," she says, letting her fire flare hotter.

He snaps, but not in the way she expects. He pulls out of her and releases her thighs, dropping her feet to the floor. She stumbles for a moment, but his hands are back on her, hard, and he spins her body swiftly, pressing her front to the door. Before she can protest a stinging smack lands on her exposed ass.

She squeals, more with surprise than pain, and struggles to turn. Once again his body is hard against hers, unyielding, pressing her roughly against the door. "I'm master of the seas. You don't risk yourself like that again, do you hear me?" His palm lands on her buttock again, harder this time. She cries out—it hurts, and fuck, she's pissed that he's daring to spank her, but the stinging thud of his hand connecting with her flesh feels fucking fantastic, too.

"Let me go!" She pushes back against him. His cock is wet and hard against her hip.

"No. I told you, I'm not afraid of you." He gathers her close, his arms unyielding, pressing her back to his chest, crushing her against him. She struggles like a wildcat, but she can't free herself without doing lasting damage to him. He holds her through her fight, moving with her, absorbing the elbow she manages to jam in his side, avoiding her head when she snaps it back, hoping to find his nose with her skull. When she pauses finally, sweaty and panting, his hand slips to the apex of her thighs. He cups her mound, his hand hot, her lips hotter as he slips between them, finding her clit, pressing the pad of his finger against it without moving. She hisses and jerks against him. "Taunt werewolves, if you will. Wander by yourself in these godforsaken mountains. Dance naked in the snow. I won't stop you. I have no right to stop you. But _no more water_. I can't lose you like that. Do you hear me?"

She hears him. He has no right to order her to stop _any_ of it, water or otherwise. But she hears him—hears more than he realizes. Something about her entering the water disturbs him deeply, far deeper than he's willing to admit. He's a man, and men don't admit to fear well. For that matter, neither does she. She'd much rather fuck the anger away than deal with it. But she can hear the pain in him, and she knows enough to understand that it's not going away on its own. Whatever darkness he carries is too big for that.

"I hear you." She promises nothing. But she hears him. "Let me go."

She's not sure he'll comply, but he does. They're both breathing hard, sweat-sticky under their shirts. She's still angry at him but this darkness feels more important. Unsure how he'll respond, she steps up to a barrel and leans over it, exposing her ass to him, a fire-bright target. "Go ahead. If hitting me will make you feel better, go ahead."

He exhales, and she watches over her shoulder as all the fight suddenly leaves him. He jams one hand into his hair, pulling hard for a moment, before both hands reach for her. "No." Gently now, his hands cover her hips. He pulls her from the barrel and collapses with her on a rough gunnysack. "No. I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

She turns, slipping her legs around him, her arms about his shoulders. "Sinbad."

His mouth touches her cheek, a gentle brush of lips, before it finds her mouth. She kisses him softly. His hands stroke her back, her buttocks, her soft hair.

"I listened to you. Now it's your turn." She cups his jaw with her warm hand. "If you want to spank me, you can. I like it, believe it or not. But not as discipline. I don't care how things work where you come from; here I'm an autonomous adult and no one has the right to discipline me. Do you understand?"

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to. I just…" His words stop and he shakes his head tightly. She can hear the roiling disquiet in him, the fear, the darkness men don't know how to admit. "Just, please. Don't make me lose you that way."

There's pain here, old pain, and the debilitating scars that come with it.

"Who did you lose?"

"I don't want to talk about it."

"Too bad. My ass hurts, I didn't get to fuck you, and I'm grumpy. Start talking."

"I'm sorry." He kisses her forehead, the bridge of her nose.

She loves his mouth, loves his apologetic tenderness, but it's not what she asked for. "Sinbad." Her fingers comb through his silky hair. "If you ever want to fuck me again, you'd better start talking." It's a threat she has no intention of following through with, but he doesn't need to know that. What he needs is a firm push. Loss can fester as surely as any physical wound, poisoning the soul. He's too good a man for that, and she refuses to let it continue if she can stop it.

His head tips forward, his forehead resting against hers. She can smell him again, salt brine and sea air. It makes even less sense than her fire, but she loves it anyway.

"I was affianced as a child." His mouth brushes light kisses against her cheek, her nose, wherever he can reach. "She died—was pushed into the oncoming tide. I couldn't swim. Couldn't save her." His words are clipped and terse, giving her the bare facts but nothing else. It doesn't bother her. If that's all he can do right now, she'll take it.

She can feel the weight of his guilt, its oppressive yoke bearing down on his shoulders. "And yet here you are—a sailor."

"The water has taken too much from me. My parents. That child—Leah. I swore it wouldn't take anyone else."

"Mm." She strokes his stubbled cheek with her thumb. This pain runs deep. It's part of who he is, she can see now. Not something that can ever truly be healed—not fully. "And has it?"

"Has it what?" His voice is wary, full of caution.

"Taken anyone else."

"Yes." He doesn't want to admit this. She can hear the sullen echo in his voice, though for the moment he's still talking. She's asking questions that prod uncomfortably close to who he is, and why, and he doesn't like it. No one would. "Crewmembers and friends. It's come close to taking me several times, but it never has. Not yet."

"And it didn't take me." She touches her mouth to his, gentle now, anger spent. She understands. It doesn't excuse his behavior, but she understands. "I'm not the girl you lost so long ago, Sinbad. I don't swim because I hate being submerged—fire and water are inimical." She shudders. "If I didn't like being clean so much I probably wouldn't even bathe."

A sharp laugh escapes him. He's not soothed—not yet, not really—but at least he's listening.

"But I went after you because I had no other choice." She licks his lower lip gently, tracing the soft line with the tip of her tongue. "I couldn't let you go. Not that easily."

"Sweetheart." His mouth touches hers tenderly.

"No one's ever called me sweet before. Unless they're talking about my—" She squeaks as he gathers her close, laying her back against the rough gunnysack, his hands pressing her open, his mouth right _there._ Yes, that's what they call sweet. His tongue licks her gently and she melts. Her fire flickers visibly over her skin, orange-yellow, glowing like true flame. Oh, he's good at this. She loves his sarcastic comebacks and his sweet kisses, but she also loves his mouth for this.

"I can't lose you." He breathes the words into the tender crease of her thigh. His mouth travels up toward her navel, pressing kisses into her velvet skin. "Not like that. Not again."

Is he still stuck on that? She wants to lose herself in his body, in the heat they create together. She rises, pushing him back until she can settle in his lap, straddling his hips with her thighs. She takes his cock in her hand, steadying herself with the other on his shoulder. Slowly, loving the feel of him pressing into her, the hot stretch of her body around him, she settles him deep inside her.

He groans low, almost a growl, as her heat envelops him. It feels too good; she presses her forehead to his, breathing his breath, his arms tight around her. They're both still dressed on top and she hates it, hates the barriers between her skin and his.

"Look at me, Sinbad."

His eyes open. She's never seen such a clear, perfect blue.

"I'm here. You're here. We both took a risk going in that water, but we survived." She tightens her internal muscles around him, rolls her hips against his. "Don't live in the past." Her mouth finds his and she kisses him deeply, her tongue rubbing sensually against his. "Fuck me."

He does.

He can't move much in this position but she can, and his strong arms guide and aid her, his mouth hungry, desperate against hers. They rock with each other, not against, her body wet and willing, moving with supple grace. She was denied the brutal, angry fuck she wanted, but this more than makes up for it. She loves how he surrounds her with his body, his strong arms steady, his mouth salt-sweet. There's still so much she doesn't understand about this man, but she willingly submerges herself in him, letting the pleasure pull her under. He won't let her drown. He's proven that already.

She comes softly, sweetly, already knowing that it's not enough—that it will never be enough. She'll always want more with him, more of him. The hunger he awakens in her is more than just her fire-magic, her inner flame. She wants him, even now as he nears his own climax, hot and thick within her. It feels so, so good, losing herself in this heat, the smell of sex, his taste on her tongue. He strokes a pebbled nipple through her shirt, his strong hands guiding her down fully on his length, holding himself there, deep, so deep, as he comes. She loves the burst of heat as he erupts inside her, even as she mourns the loss of him when he pulls out. If they had time, she'd tear him out of his clothes and love him properly, and demand the same in return. She wants his mouth on her again—wants him to spread her wide and lick until she screams, then fuck them both boneless. Over and over again.

But they don't have the time she so desperately wants, the time to kiss and love on him, to tire them both out. For now, this will have to do. He's half-hard and if she tempts him he'll be ready to go again in another minute, but she can't. Sorcha is waiting. They need to learn what they can from Senna and get back out in the wilds before anyone else disappears.

His mouth finds hers again, tongue stroking in, and though he's gentle, she can feel the desire still simmering in him. The painful edge has been taken off their desperation but the yearning heat remains. She can feel it despite the softer touch of his hands, the way he strokes her tangled hair back and kisses her mouth tenderly. Her lip is a little swollen where he bit her earlier and he licks it gently, apologetic. She doesn't care about a little love bite like that and laughs as she gives him a final kiss before reluctantly pulling away, searching for her trousers in the semi-darkness. Now that her fire has cooled the flickers of color on her skin die away as well, leaving them nearly blind.

"Maeve…" His hand circles her wrist, stilling her. She hears him swallow hard, feels the tension in his body as he struggles to speak.

No. Not him. Not now. She presses herself tight against him and wraps him in her arms. "I know." She hopes the words soothe him. Moreover, she hopes they stop him. Whatever he's about to say, he doesn't mean it. Not really. Her fire confuses men. They think they love her, but they don't. Once he's back on his ship with his crew and his brother he'll realize that. He'll be glad she stopped him from saying it, from promising something he doesn't really mean.

His arms hold her tightly, and she lets herself bask for another long moment in their warmth. What will happen to her when he leaves, she's not sure, but she'll get by. She always does.

"Sorcha's waiting," she says quietly, pressing a kiss to his jaw before retreating. "Lachlan will be, too."

"You slept with him, didn't you?" It's not accusatory. She'd slap him if it was.

"Yes." She pulls her boots back on and opens the door. She's not ashamed and she has no reason to lie. "Months ago."

"He's in love with you."

Maeve wonders how he knows this, but she stops herself from asking. That's treading too close to dangerous territory. "He thinks he is," she acknowledges. "It's not my problem if he can't take a hint." She combs her fingers through her curly hair. "I need to find the scullery so I can wash before we go to Sorcha."

His hand takes hers, stilling her motions. She looks at him, those gorgeous blue eyes stormy as he watches her. "Leave it."

She explained to him earlier this morning exactly what that means. If she leaves the residue of their coupling on her, in her, everyone will know. They'll know anyway, but if she doesn't wash, she'll be letting him mark her just as clearly as she marked him with her teeth.

And fuck it. _Fuck it._ He's hers for as long as they have, which means she's his, too. "And they say we northerners are the heathens." She inhales deeply. "Let's go."

* * *

"There will be no fighting in my infirmary; or I'll dump you all back in that fucking lake."

"Who's fighting?" Maeve stops beside Senna's bed, Sinbad just behind her.

The woman is still asleep under a massive pile of blankets. Sinbad was in no shape to take a good look at her when he rescued her and he doesn't recognize her. He does recognize Lachlan, the iceman, who stands on the other side of the bed with an older man.

"Odhran." Maeve bows her head respectfully to the stranger. "Lachlan. This is Sinbad. He pulled Senna from the lake."

"We met." The iceman's voice is clipped. He refuses to meet Sinbad's eyes.

Sinbad mimics Maeve's small bow. The older man has threads of silver in his dark beard and at his temples. He offers his palm; Sinbad is pleased at the strength of his handshake.

"Sinbad. Our thanks to you. I am clan chief here, and you are welcome in my house."

Not by some, Sinbad wants to say, but he refrains. He places his hand lightly on Maeve's hip. She glances at him with those dark honey eyes but says nothing and doesn't move away.

"Lachlan, where is my hedge witch?" Sorcha demands, leaving another patient and crossing to them.

"I volunteered," Odhran says. "I have the training you require, and Maeve is right. It's time to share what we all know."

Time and past, Sinbad thinks. They should have been in touch with the human villages long before now, so they could share knowledge at the very least, if not defenses. But age-old hatreds and mistrust can't be put away so easily. He understands, but the senselessness irritates the hell out of him. If the lowland humans and mountain Fae were able to work together, Senna might not have ever needed rescuing. Hell, he might never have been called to this frozen mountain in the first place.

"Then let's get started." Sorcha rubs her temples lightly with her fingertips. "I'm no mage, you understand, so I make no promises. I want to set up a relay—to see if we can't access some of Senna's recent memories without waking her."

"I can't read minds," Maeve says doubtfully.

"That's a relief." Sorcha grins. "Gods help us if you could. No, you'll be providing the visualization. I want you at the fire." She nods at the large fireplace across the room. "I'll be entering Senna's mind. Odhran, you'll be providing the necessary link between my skills and Maeve's. Neither of us are true mages. I need you to feed her what I see, so she can manifest it."

"I'm the interpreter. I understand." The clan chief pauses. "Can she do this without setting fire to the infirmary?"

Maeve rolls her eyes. "It's not like I burn down every building I see."

"Yes, well, this wing was recently remodeled, and I quite like it the way it is." Odhran's black eyes twinkle. He's a big, hairy bear of a man, dressed in fur-lined leather that makes him look even bigger than he really is. Something about his size and his sense of humor reminds Sinbad of Doubar. So far he likes him—likes him much better than he likes the iceman, anyway.

"There's running water and plenty of buckets." Sorcha sounds unperturbed. "Sinbad and Lachlan can deal with any stray sparks." She rubs her nose and takes a seat on the side of Senna's bed. The woman doesn't move. She's pale and ashen, but her breaths sound clear enough when Sinbad listens. He hears no telltale congestion that might signal the start of pneumonia as Sorcha fears. "I'm just a healer, so what I can pull from her will be limited. I need everyone watching so we can hopefully interpret whatever Maeve can give us."

Sinbad watches, fascinated, as they begin. He's never observed a complex magical ritual requiring multiple magicians before. He suspects Firouz would object strongly.

Sorcha places her hands lightly on the sleeping woman's temples. Her fingers flex, then hold steady. A soft violet light gathers just where her fingertips touch Senna's skin.

Odhran steps to the middle of the room, roughly halfway between the bed and the fireplace, where Maeve kneels on the hearth. He extends one arm toward Sorcha. Violet magic gathers in his palm. He extends the other hand toward Maeve. Sinbad's eyes widen as the purple magic pulses and shifts, flowing up his arm and down the other, moving as if with a current, turning from Sorcha's violet to a dark, indigo blue.

As the indigo magic gathers in Odhran's left hand, Maeve shifts. She reaches toward him with her left hand, almost touching his fingertips as she extends her arm fully. She thrusts the other hand firmly into the fire.

Sinbad jumps. He knows she can't be burned, but still he has to force his body to remain in place. It takes everything in him not to lunge for her and pull her away from the fire. He glances at Lachlan, standing on the other side of Odhran. The iceman is rigid and tense; Sinbad swears he saw him jerk, too, as if to stop Maeve from burning herself.

The dark indigo magic flows from Odhran to Maeve, faster and easier than it left Sorcha or entered the clan chief. Whatever he's doing in the middle, it's obviously working. Sinbad is unsurprised to see the magic turn red-orange when it reaches Maeve, flickering with the colors of her fire. It flows through her, swift as a river, and her hair begins to spark again, as it did in the dining hall when she lost her temper.

When it reaches her hand in the fire, the magic…shifts somehow. Sinbad has no words for what he sees, watching as the power flows from Maeve, into the fire kindled in the fireplace. It swirls and billows, moving in ways fire should not move. The flame grows, raging too big for the fireplace, and explodes into the room. Sinbad's feet feel nailed to the floor as his body struggles against twin urges. He wants to flee, his fight-or-flight reflex telling him to run, to escape the rapidly expanding flames. Just as urgently, he wants to go to her, to grab her, to pull her to safety. The urge to protect her has nothing to do with reality; he knows she's causing this, that it can't harm her, but his body disagrees.

The billowing fire moves like a loose sail caught by the wind. Nobody tries to stop it. Sinbad stares, sure it's going to envelop them all in another moment. But then, as he watches, he swears he starts to see shapes move within the sheet of fire. A noxious stench fills his throat and he chokes on the reek of death and decay. The shapes move, wraith-like, undulating with the crackling fire. Hands reach for him, empty, staring eyes bore into him. A starving mouth opens, a jagged maw aimed at his heart. He can't move. He can't breathe.

The hiss of water on a fire breaks his trance. Maeve shrieks, and the room fills with smoke and steam.

"That's quite enough of that." Sorcha's voice sounds from somewhere in the murk.

Odhran swears in Turkish. Everyone is coughing, choking on the bitter smoke and steam. Sinbad fumbles his way to a window and yanks it open. Frigid mountain air pours in. He sees Lachlan's silhouette do the same, and the cross-breeze allows the smoke to stream out.

Sinbad drops to the hearth. Maeve is barely visible through the smoke still flowing from the fireplace. He stumbles on a bucket; Sorcha must have dumped it over the fire, stopping the vision but creating this smoky mess. Maeve is soaking wet and visibly steaming. He pulls her close, needing the reassurance of touch after watching her nearly go up in flame. To his shock, she's shaking. She never gets cold, so there must be another reason.

She's also coughing the worst, having been closest to the fire when Sorcha drenched it. That's not a safe way to extinguish any fire and he suspects the healer knows it but was more concerned with speed. He lifts Maeve's choking body in his arms and bears her to the nearest open window.

"Breathe. Easy now. Just breathe." He speaks through his own coughs, lungs fighting for clean air after inhaling that thick, bitter smoke. He puts her back on her feet, knowing she won't thank him for coddling her, but keeps her wracking body close. She retches and spits black phlegm out the window. He does the same.

"What the ever-loving fuck was that?" Odhran demands. He has a folded blanket in his hands and flaps it over Senna's bed, fanning the smoke away from her convulsing body.

"Breaking the link was necessary." Sorcha coughs and spits into the fireplace. She raises the apron tied around her waist and wipes at the inside corners of her eyes. Sinbad's eyes are burning too, but he ignores the stinging pain. His hands are filthy with soot, covered with the residue of the smoke now coating Maeve, and would only make things worse. "I apologize for the smoke. The lesser of two evils, I'm afraid." She retrieves a clean linen cloth from a shelf on the other side of the infirmary and returns to her patient, gently wiping Senna's face.

Sinbad squeezes Maeve tightly for a moment, then steps away. He doesn't want to, but the fire in the fireplace isn't quite dead, still leaking steam and smoke. He hefts another of the buckets Sorcha prepared in case of emergency and pours it on the smoking remnants of the blaze. Slowly this time, working from the outside in, he douses the fire fully and properly. The hearth is a wet, sooty mire; they'll have to scoop out the muck, scrub it clean, and let the whole thing dry before they can lay a new fire.

Maeve leaves the window and presses against him, still coughing a little. He holds her tightly, gratified that she came to him, soothed by the bright pink in her cheeks. He's seen people choked near death, fighting for breath, and she's nowhere near the ashy purple color they turn. He kisses her forehead, beyond thankful that she seems unhurt. She's a wet, sooty mess and her normal sweet smoke scent is masked by the bitter smoke of this fire, but these things are easily fixed.

"I saw a…a _thing_." Sinbad coughs and spits into the ruined fireplace. "Not like any monster I've ever seen."

"It smelled like a dragon." Lachlan's soft voice is grave. "But it didn't look like one."

"Dragons smell like death because they eat raw flesh and live in the filth of their victims." Sorcha bathes Senna's face gently with warm water and a clean cloth. "Easy, sweetness," she says softly as her patient coughs. "Just breathe. The smoke is gone. I'm sorry." She glances at Lachlan after a moment. "That was no dragon, but whatever it was, I suspect it lives similarly."

The room is a mess. Sinbad rests against a wall next to the fireplace, Maeve secure in his arms. A thin haze of smoke still lingers in the air despite the open windows, though the thick, black, choking clouds are gone. Wet soot smears the walls and floor, covering everything with dark, greasy residue. Whoever is in charge of cleaning the infirmary isn't going to be happy with them. All the beds will have to be changed, the linens and blankets soaked in lye and washed by hand, and even then Sinbad isn't sure they'll ever quite get the smell of smoke out.

More concerning to him, Maeve is still shaking. He tightens his arms and nudges her softly with his nose.

"Too much magic," she says, touching his cheek with her filthy fingers. "I'm okay."

He hopes she's telling the truth. He shudders lightly as he remembers those empty, gaping eyes, how they stared at him. How much worse was it for her, channeling the memory, giving it life with her magic?

"Do you know what that thing was?" Odhran asks, settling his bulk heavily into a dirty chair.

"No." Sorcha strokes Senna's hair and offers her clean water to sip. Either the magic or the sudden smoke woke the patient. Sinbad hopes she'll be all right; this was what Sorcha hoped to avoid. "Neither does she. Do you, love?"

Senna shakes her head slowly, eyes shut tight. Her mouth moves. She tries to speak but ends up coughing again. Sorcha waits patiently, then holds the mug of water for her to sip.

"Went hunting," she says finally, her voice rough and hoarse. "But it was hunting me, too. Went into the lake." She collapses in another coughing fit. "Escape," she says finally.

"Okay. That's enough now. Just breathe." Sorcha strokes her forehead.

"Aoife?"

"With your sister. She's fine."

"Why did she take the baby hunting with her in the first place?" Sinbad asks, dropping his voice low, so only Maeve can hear.

Or so he thinks. Lachlan's pale gaze flashes their way. Sinbad keeps forgetting the Fae have keener senses than he, though Maeve keeps telling him.

"It's not unusual. As a farmer will take her baby to the fields, a hunter takes hers to the trees. They learn quickly to be quiet and still. In this case, it looks like Aoife saw her mother flee into the water and tried to follow. We would have seen the creature if we were faster." She swears under her breath.

"It's a wonder you were there at all, so let's be thankful for what we have," Sorcha says firmly. "Odhran, Lachlan, Senna can't give you any more."

The healer's words are a clear dismissal. They pick their way around the worst of the mess and leave the infirmary, closing the door behind them.

"Well." Odhran folds his arms over his chest. "I'm open to suggestions."

Maeve frowns. Both she and the clan chief have returned to their normal color after their coughing fits. If the iceman ever turned pink, Sinbad didn't see. "We know why Senna went into the lake, I guess, but I don't know if that helps us." She shakes her arms, disgusted with her wet, clinging sleeves.

"We know the creature didn't follow. That's important." Sinbad keeps an arm firmly at her waist.

"Aye. Potentially very important," Odhran agrees. "But it isn't a solution. I can't tell my people there's a creature stalking us and their only defense is to dive for a puddle if they see it."

This is true. Knowing the creature won't enter water is important but it doesn't solve their problem.

"I need to find it," Maeve says. "One of them, at least. For all we know there could be more than one."

"There probably are," Lachlan says in his soft, low voice. "There's rarely only one of anything."

"I don't like the thought of sending you out alone." Odhran's troubled frown deepens. "I didn't like it before, and I like it even less after seeing that thing. I know you're capable. But you are also precious to the queen."

Maeve rolls her eyes. "Precious. I'm _useful_ to the queen. There's a big difference."

"You are both," Lachlan says firmly. "And knowing what we know now, I do not believe Riona would want you out there alone."

Maeve folds her wet arms over her chest. "I'm not alone. Sinbad is here, too."

Sinbad feels torn. He doesn't want to agree with the iceman, but he also doesn't want her risking herself recklessly. She may have conveniently forgotten, but he hasn't—she can't swim. How is she supposed to protect herself if she can't escape into water, as Senna did?

"I'm yours to command," he tells Odhran, meeting the clan chief's worried black eyes. He doesn't trust the iceman but he trusts Odhran. "I'll protect her with my life."

Maeve huffs and shoves at him, leaving a sooty smear on his vest. "I don't need protecting!" Her wet clothes steam slightly as her anger flares, rekindling that inner fire.

"Riona won't like it." Lachlan's pale eyes watch them. Sinbad has no doubt the fairy smelled him on Maeve before Sorcha cloaked the room with bitter smoke. He doesn't mean to cause problems for Maeve, but he really, really doesn't like the man.

"You have a key. You may return to Aven and consult the queen if you wish. If you do, I will of course obey her." Odhran sounds tired. He's been dealing with this situation for months, Sinbad realizes, trying to keep his people safe while some unknown creature picks them off, one by one. "Until then, my decision stands." He glances from Sinbad to Lachlan and back again—human southerner and the captain of the Fae queen's guard. "Maeve was sent here to do a job. I don't have the right to interfere with that." He rubs the back of one hairy hand over his mouth. "You've proven useful, Sinbad. I hope you continue to do so."

Sinbad inclines his head respectfully, grateful that the clan chief isn't going to try to send him away or keep him from Maeve.

"You both have my leave to continue searching for this beast." He shrugs his large shoulders. "It didn't take you too long to lure the werewolves. Let's hope you're as successful this time."

Lure the werewolves? Sinbad frowns at Maeve, who narrows her eyes and shakes her head at him.

"Clean up, get a good night's sleep, and you can start in the morning. Take a key with you." The troubled clan chief gives them one last look before turning away, moving much more swiftly down the corridor than Sinbad expected for a man his size.

"Are you going to Riona?" Maeve's attention shifts to Lachlan.

The iceman is extremely unhappy, but his smooth face doesn't change. Wherever he learned to school his expression, he learned it well. "No. Not yet. Not after opening two doors so recently." His mouth shifts ever so slightly, the faintest hint of a scowl. "We need to save the power in case you need it again."

Sinbad wants badly to ask why the captain of the guard doesn't go himself to find this creature. It only seems reasonable—wasn't he sent here by his queen to help these people? But Sinbad doesn't want Lachlan any closer to Maeve than he has to be. She's Sinbad's to protect and care for now, not the iceman's. And if the three of them go out on the mountain together, either Sinbad or Lachlan isn't coming back alive. He can't put Maeve in that position, so he keeps his mouth shut. Soon enough they'll be alone again, just the two of them. He aches for it. They have a job to do, and he works much better unfettered, without the assumptions and requirements of all these other people. Just him and Maeve. He's positive that together they'll be able to find this creature and stop it. Whatever it is, it can't be stronger than the two of them together.

Lachlan watches them for another moment before dropping his eyes, nodding slightly. "Go, then. But be careful, _leannán_. Rest tonight before you leave." He glares at Sinbad with those glacial eyes. "_Rest_."

Rest, not sex; his meaning is perfectly clear. But he cannot control Maeve's personal life, and Sinbad can tell from the unhappy curve of his mouth that he knows it. Maeve bristles when he speaks, but Sinbad touches the small of her back lightly. Arguing with him here, in the corridor outside the infirmary, will do no one any good. Let him say what he'll say. Sinbad is the one with his hands on her, his seed in her. She's made her choice.

"You don't get to call me that," she snaps. "I've told you to stop." Her eyes flash with fire. The fine tremble in her limbs picks up again—not much, but Sinbad can feel it. He suspects Lachlan can see it, too.

"Come on." He pulls his eyes away from the captain of the guard. "Let's get you dry. Do you need to pack anything?"

"Not really." She pushes wet, sooty hair out of her face, leaving a smudge on her forehead. "Do you want your clothes back?"

"Yes." These leathers may be warmer, but he's more comfortable in his loose _sirwal_ and if they're going hunting, he needs to be able to move freely. He follows as she turns away from Lachlan, leaving the pale Fae alone in the corridor.

* * *

"What did he call you?"

"What do you mean?"

"_Leannán_." Sinbad tries to mimic the word Lachlan used. "What does it mean?"

"Just let it go." She's warm and wet, fair skin pink and gleaming as she sits in front of him in the copper tub. Sinbad swears he's never washed so often in his life. This time they really did need it, both of them covered in soot and smoke residue. The bath water is now the color of charcoal, but Sinbad doesn't care. Maeve smells like herself again, sweet smoke and honey, and she promises the faint tremble in her limbs will ease once she eats. That's all that matters to him. He holds her close, palms sliding against her wet skin, stroking her flat belly, caressing her soft breasts, the curve of her hips.

He doesn't particularly want to drop the subject. He's curious, and he doesn't like the iceman's presumption. Whatever the man called her, Maeve obviously didn't like it.

But he also doesn't want to argue with her right now. He suspects goading her into an angry fuck would be fantastic, but she's worn out from using so much magic in the infirmary and he doesn't want to push her. Besides, they have to go back out onto the mountain tomorrow, and he wants her hale and strong. Just the memory of that creature sends a sliver of fear bleeding up his spine, raising his hackles. He doesn't know what the monster is, but his body senses its danger and doesn't want anything to do with it.

Unfortunately for his body, it's his job—and Maeve's—to kill it. To get rid of that thing, so it leaves the Fae clans and human villages in safety.

So they can get back to hating each other.

He stifles a sigh and tightens his arms around Maeve's warm body. His mouth leaves gentle kisses along her gleaming shoulder, the smooth line of her throat. So lovely. So sweet. He's in love with her fire, but these tender moments touch his soul.

"Penny for your thoughts?"

"I just wish they could all get along." He nuzzles the sweet velvet divot behind her ear, possibly the softest skin on her. Though maybe not—he's happy to do a comparison. He loves the sweet crease behind her knee. The tender inside of her wrist, just where her pulse thrums. And—

"I know. But you can't force people to get along. I know; I've tried."

"You'd think an emergency this dire might change their minds."

"You'd think." She reaches behind her head, fumbling until she finds his cheek, short nails scratching lightly at his stubble. "I like this. Makes you look like a pirate."

"I'm an honest sailor, not a pirate. How dare you?" He chuckles, loving the touch of her hands, the way her body fits so perfectly against his. It's like he was made just for this, made to hold her. "Do you have a plan for tomorrow?"

"Why? Do you have an opinion?"

He has many opinions on many topics regarding her, but he's not sure about the best plan for tomorrow. "Part of me wants to go back to Ralgorōd and get my crew. There's safety in numbers. But another part of me doesn't want them anywhere near this creature."

"They're in danger anyway. People have been disappearing from the lowland villages, you said so yourself."

"I know. But there's a difference between accepting danger and tempting fate." He kisses her wet hair. "Speaking of which—what was all that about luring werewolves?"

"What?" Her stomach grumbles. They need to eat soon; her body needs the fuel after all the magic she used. "I needed to know whether the werewolves were behind the disappearances. How else to find them?"

"That's why you were singing." He gives up and laughs, unable to continue being outraged. Stopping this girl from risking herself is a fool's errand. "You were using your fire, too, weren't you?"

"Of course. Any self-respecting werewolf within a league would have smelled or heard me. Why do you think Riona sent me and not someone else?"

He tightens his arms as much as he dares. Loving her is brutally hard. She is what she is, and he doesn't want her to change. But he's terrified just the same, scared because of her reckless fearlessness, the way she willingly puts herself in harm's way. The fact that he does the same on a regular basis doesn't register. But fucking hell, it hurts to hear that her queen purposefully sent her as live bait for werewolves.

"What would happen if a werewolf bit you? With your magic? Would you still become like them?"

"I don't know." She turns in his arms, settling sideways against him. "I told you that Fae and Celt are more or less one people. Sometimes anomalies pop up. Magic or other abilities—things that didn't exist in the parents, things that can't be explained." She shrugs helplessly. "No one knows what I am or why I am this way. I don't know the limits of what I can do, or how it sets me apart. Maybe I'll die younger than normal humans. Maybe I'm sterile. Maybe someday this fire will burn out. I just don't know."

"Does it scare you?"

She settles her head on his shoulder and lifts her chin, watching him with those sweet, honey-dark eyes. "Not usually. Mostly I think I'm lucky." Her sweet mouth curves in a smile. "This life is a bigger adventure for me than most."

Sweet, tempestuous thing. He kisses her mouth, loving the taste of smoke and honey. Of course that's how she thinks of it. If he were in her place, he would, too. "You're an adventure I never expected." He traces that gorgeous lower lip with his thumb, and his cock stiffens behind her when she opens her mouth, taking his thumb inside. They've already flouted the directive to rest—twice—and he's more than ready to do it again.

But she needs food, and as much as he doesn't want to agree with Lachlan, Sinbad suspects she needs a good night's sleep, too, after all that magic. Sorcha isn't a trained mage, as she stressed several times, and didn't really know what she was asking of Maeve. The power they accidentally unleashed was far greater than anyone expected, and Sorcha had to scramble to douse it quickly. Maeve insists she'll be fine and Sinbad has no reason to doubt that, but tomorrow they're heading into the unknown. Doing so without enough rest is a risk he's unwilling to take. Not with Maeve.

He kisses her again gently, stroking her cheek with his wet thumb. "Come on. Let's feed you. Then you can argue with me about how best to find this creature."


	6. Chapter 6

**The Mountain**

Pairing: Maeve/Sinbad  
Rating: M  
Setting: Alternate  
All standard disclaimers apply

* * *

"Maeve!"

Maeve turns in the milky early morning light, unsurprised to see Sorcha jogging toward her. She missed her at dinner the night before and breakfast this morning, and she's glad to get a chance to say goodbye.

Sorcha rubs her arms briskly as she steps close. Her cheeks and nose glow bright pink in the frigid morning air. Maeve takes her friend's hands and holds them between her own, warming them.

"Go on with you." The older woman shakes her off. "I won't freeze in two minutes." She smiles fondly at her. "I just wanted to tell you to be careful." She glances at Sinbad, silent at Maeve's side, then back to her friend.

"I'm always careful."

"You are nothing of the sort." Pale green eyes consider her for a long moment. Maeve is unsurprised when Sorcha shifts from Turkish to their native tongue, ensuring Sinbad cannot understand. "I don't just mean because of the creature. I mean with him."

"I thought you liked him."

"That's not what I mean. I mean that he seems like a good man, Maeve. And he obviously cares for you."

Maeve shifts her weight uneasily from one leg to the other. This is not the time for a heart-to-heart. She's leaving the safety of Odhran's clan, just Sinbad beside her, to find the wraith-like creature with empty, staring eyes. She needs to stay focused on the job ahead, not the man with her. "They all think they do when they're near me." She refuses to give in to the comforting fantasy. Besides, even if he thinks he loves her, there's no future for them. They belong in different worlds.

Sorcha hesitates for a moment. Her chest rises as she inhales, and she rolls her head slightly. "You asked me the other day if you were pregnant."

Maeve's stomach plummets. No. Not now. "You have the _worst_ timing ever." She rubs her eyes with her fingers and sucks in a deep breath. Okay. She can handle this. She knows what to do.

"I couldn't tell then, but I can smell the change in you now."

"Don't tell him."

"That's your call, not mine." Sorcha holds out a small paper packet of dried herbs. "Do you want this?"

"Yes." Maeve takes it, refusing to give herself time to reconsider.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes." She has to be. There's no other choice. "To be honest, I wasn't sure it was possible." It's her own fault. She's never had a pregnancy scare and she's grown complacent, avoiding the awful-tasting herbal brew that will keep her from conceiving, and ignoring her body's moon-rhythm.

"You've never conceived before?"

"No."

Sorcha considers. "Have you slept with human men before this one, or only Fae?"

"Both. Not that it matters." None of it matters. What's done is done. She doesn't need to know why it happened now, with this man. She just needs to deal with the situation and move forward. She has a job to do.

"Are you really sure this is what you want?" Sorcha glances at Sinbad, who watches them curiously. Maeve will have questions to answer once they're alone again. She hopes if she tells him the conversation was women's business he'll let her be.

Maeve doesn't answer the healer. "How many doses?"

"Once at night and again the next morning. You'll cramp and bleed as with the moon."

"Then I'll wait until I return." Maeve shoves the little packet into her shirt. "I want to lure the creature, but not by bleeding." She wants more control over the hunt than that. Bears and wolves can scent blood over long distances, werewolves and dragons even further. She doesn't want to guess what this creature might be capable of.

Sorcha turns to leave, then pauses. "I told you before that your scent was altered somehow. His is, too." She glances at Sinbad, then back to Maeve. "Both of you have changed the other."

"And?" Maeve feels intensely uncomfortable talking like this, even though she knows Sinbad can't understand. She knows she's been altered by him, but it doesn't change anything. She's still Celt. He's still a southerner. She's fire. He's water.

"Just…be careful. You don't like to hear it, but you are dear to a great many people."

Impulsively, Maeve steps forward and hugs her tightly. "Thank you."

Sorcha hugs her back, arms hard, hands like ice on Maeve's skin. "Take care of her, Sinbad," she says in Turkish as she steps away.

Maeve throws her hands up. "I don't need to be taken care of! When will you people listen?"

"When you stop acting so recklessly." Sorcha raises up on tiptoe to kiss her forehead, then turns back toward Odhran's palace.

Maeve swears, but there's nothing more she can say. She glares at Sinbad for good measure before heading once more for the forest.

"You know, that friend of yours is a very smart woman."

"Don't you start." She leads the way into the trees, heading up and east, toward the lake where Senna encountered the creature. It's the only real lead they have—if she met one in that area, it's possibly still there. Even if it isn't, there will be tracks—evidence of some kind.

"What did she want? Besides to tell you to be careful."

"Nothing."

His face darkens. "I'm not stupid, you know." He matches her long, swinging stride easily. Most of the snow from the night they met has melted, leaving bare, muddy ground. This early in the morning the mud is frozen; they'll be able to cover quite a bit of ground before it thaws toward midday.

"I know you're not stupid." Things would be so much easier if he were. If he were just a pretty face, she wouldn't be in this mess. She'd be able to fuck him and leave him with no trouble, no regrets. "It's female business. It doesn't concern you."

Normally that's enough to shut any man up, but not Sinbad. Of course not Sinbad. "What did she give you?"

Maeve exhales an irritated breath. "What is _with_ you? Why can't you take a hint?" She glares sideways at him and lies. "It's herbs so I don't bleed. I don't want any surprises." Lying doesn't come naturally to her, and it puts her in a foul mood. She does see the morbid humor in her chosen words, though. She _doesn't_ want any surprises, and Sorcha hit her with a big one. She wasn't even sure she could conceive until today. Now that she has…no. It makes no difference. Sinbad isn't staying, and she's not the settling down type anyway. No Fae or Celt would judge her for having a child on her own, but…no. No. She's never before considered being a mother and she doubts she'd be any good at it. It's better this way. Cleaner. Leaving Sinbad will wrench enough anyway without added complications.

"Why didn't you just say so to begin with?" He seems to accept her explanation about the herbs, but she can still feel a certain wariness from him. Human he may be, but he's uniquely sensitive to her—perhaps part of the alteration Sorcha can scent. Does he know she's lying? She doubts it.

"I shouldn't have to say anything. You're too nosy."

"I worry about you. That's not being nosy."

"I'm not yours to worry about!"

He stops walking and his big hand grabs her arm. She whirls, her hair sparking with fire, a warning. He sees it but doesn't stop. "I'm inside you. That makes you mine to worry about."

She laughs with bitter irony. He means the seed he's spilled in her, wholly unaware that it's taken root. "It does not. You'd best get that through your thick head, and do it quick. If you can't understand that we're partners with a job to do, you're going to get us both killed."

He's angry, but she's right and there's nothing he can say to change that. He exhales a deep breath through his nose and releases her arm. "Fine. Truce. For now."

_For now_. She feels the weight of his words even as she turns back to the trees. They can work together—at least, she thinks they can. But she can't foresee what will happen if when—_if_—they return from this quest alive.

* * *

Out on the mountain again, the weather seems as cold as it ever was. Sinbad accepted a fur-lined jacket when offered but returned to his own clothing otherwise. The northern leather is too restrictive, and he needs full mobility if he's going to hunt a monster.

The mountain temperature is bitter, and even through the borrowed jacket Sinbad's bones ache. He's unsure of his decision to leave his crew back in Ralgorōd, but for now he's sticking with it. Doubar isn't swift, and until they know that this creature can be fought with hard steel he doesn't want his brother anywhere near it. The lowlanders need help fortifying their villages anyway; there's plenty of work for his crew without bringing them into unnecessary danger.

He doesn't want Maeve in unnecessary danger, either, but she seems hellbent on putting herself there. He's given up trying to stop her—this is who she is, after all. He doesn't see the similarity with himself, but he understands there's no arguing with her. All he can do is try to protect her, to shield her from the worst this mountain can do.

Not that she needs it—not yet. She's swift, her strides as long as his and her pace as sure. He remains silent as they pass quickly through the trees, climbing steadily, heading east, back toward that damnable lake. It's their only clue, and their destination is perhaps the only thing both he and his Celt agree on right now. He can feel her irritation with him, and the twin urges it ignites in them. Anger and passion both stoke that inner fire of hers, and he's learned by now that she has little control over her emotions, no control at all over what that fire does to those around her. Feeling her ire sparks his own, but even more than that, it sparks the deepest desire he's ever felt—an incredible craving for that perfect body of hers, her heat, her smoke-sweet taste on his tongue. She drives him crazy, and even though he knows there's nothing she can do about it, it still irritates the hell out of him. He's never been so easily manipulated before, and he doesn't like it. He's better than this, stronger than this.

Except he isn't, apparently. Not where she's concerned.

Her conversation with Sorcha this morning also bothers him. She said it was women's business, which normally would shut down his curiosity completely, but the way Sorcha looked at him, her swift shift to their mother tongue—it makes him suspicious. Granted, he hasn't known Maeve very long, but she's always been utterly honest with him. Until this morning. Now she's hiding something, and he doesn't like it.

But she's correct that they have a job to do, a vital task that will hopefully save the lives of the Fae in their mountain clans and the lowland humans near the river below. So many souls are depending on them, and Sinbad refuses to neglect that. Whatever's happening between him and Maeve, addressing it will have to wait. He suspects any attempt on his part will cause an explosion of temper on hers, and they just don't have the time to fight and fuck and talk and probably fuck some more before making up. Gods, he wishes they did. It will be fantastic, he's positive. But it will have to wait.

They reach the lake near noon, dropping down to the rocky shore and pausing under an earthen overhang. The long, swift hike burned off most of Maeve's irritation and therefore Sinbad's as well, and he stands beside her, both watching and listening for anything unusual in the forest around them.

"No birds," he murmurs, keeping his voice low. He can't even hear the ubiquitous coarse call of crows.

"Most fly south or head to the lowlands for winter." Her voice is as quiet as his. "I wouldn't expect to hear much."

"Guess they're smarter than we are."

She makes a face at him, but takes no real offense. He'd feel her fire flicker if she did.

The winter mountain is uncannily quiet without birdsong. The lake would usually lap at the rocky shoreline but the edges sit encrusted in ice, silencing even the soft sound of moving water. The only noise is the occasional burst of wind sighing in the trees, causing bare branches to sway and creak. It isn't blowing hard enough to cause the eerie screeches he remembers from the day he met Maeve, and that, at least, he's glad of.

"Now what?" She regards him with those keen honey-dark eyes. She's letting him make the next call.

Not that there's much of a decision to make. The forest is silent. They're not learning anything standing here. "Now we scout the shoreline. If that doesn't produce any good clues, I say we follow Senna's lead."

"How so?"

"She said she was hunting when she was attacked. Maybe she and the creature were stalking the same prey, at least at first."

Maeve nods agreeably enough. "You go deosil. I'll go widdershins. We can meet at the other side."

"Oh, no. Not on your life." He's not letting her out of his sight. This may be her task as well as his, but he's not leaving her to potentially face that creature alone. "You can't swim, which means you can't get away from that thing if it finds you."

She rolls her eyes; the look she gives him is withering. "I don't have to listen to you! Besides, I don't have to swim to hide in the lake if necessary."

Sinbad can feel her fire flare; it pushes at his senses, taunting him. She's angry and wants her independence. He's not used to being gainsaid so much—on his ship he's the captain, and what he says goes. But she's right; she's not his crewmember and he's not her captain. He can't compel her obedience if she doesn't want to give it.

Good thing he's not above using guile.

"You saw how poorly I did in the water the other day," he says, countering her intractable stubborn streak with what sounds like reason. "What if I have to go back into the lake, without my bonfire this time?"

This stops her protests. She's suspicious of his answer but can't logically refute him; she presses those beautiful lips together and says nothing. Relieved that he's won this argument and utterly unconcerned with how, he begins moving cautiously toward the shoreline. He has absolutely no intention of going back in that water even if they find this creature, but she doesn't need to know that. Let her think she's protecting him; it's no skin off his back, and it keeps her close.

After a heartbeat she follows, feet nearly silent on the smooth, uneven rocks. She positions herself between him and the forest. He doesn't argue, though the danger they face comes from the trees. She's so close he can almost feel the heat of her fire, so close that he's confident he can protect her if need be. He suspects he'll need to. That inner flame of hers is a beacon she can't turn off, which is why her queen chose her to hunt this creature in the first place. It led the werewolves unerringly to her the other day. Even Sinbad, who possesses no magical ability as far as he knows, can feel the steady warmth of her.

"Are you using your fire?" He pauses on the icy rocks. She can't turn it off but she can feed the flame, stoking it brighter, hotter.

"No. Do you want me to?"

No, he absolutely does not want her to. He doesn't want to make her any more of a target than she already is. But they need to find this thing fast, before it hurts or kills anyone else. He sets his jaw and nods.

She looks at him for a moment, then closes the distance between them in one swift stride. Her hands find his hips; he can feel the heat of her palms through his clothing. Her mouth touches his, kissing him hard. It lasts just a moment, three swift heartbeats of heat, the perfect softness of that devastating mouth, before she steps away again.

He blinks, his body colder after that swift, sweet blaze of warmth. She doesn't begin to glow with the colors of flame as she did in Odhran's pantry, but he can sense the change as the fire in her flares hotter, its reach extending, flowing from the living flame at her heart.

And he can't resist. He's drawn to that heat like everything else, an impulse he can't control. He slips his arms around her, her vivid warmth easing the chill in his bones, thawing his numb hands. "If I were to fuck you here, right now, would that increase your fire? Bait the creature even more?"

She grins with all her wild ferocity. "I don't think you could. It's too cold for that cock." Her hand squeezes him shamelessly through his clothes. "But if you did, you'd bring every supernatural being on the mountain down on us—werewolves, this creature, gods know what else."

He thinks he probably could, despite the cold. Just the warmth and pressure of her hand has his cock attempting to stiffen in defiance of the weather. But he wasn't really serious about trying; it's too unwise, leaves them too vulnerable to whatever might be lurking on the mountain. They want to find the creature that attacked Senna, not force another confrontation with a pack of werewolves. He kisses her mouth again, biting that lip he loves so much for good measure. "Tonight, then. In a treehouse?"

"You're on." She nips the tip of his cold nose before pulling back and stepping away. He aches to keep her near, but she's not kindling her inner fire for him. She's doing it to lure the unknown creature, and he has to remember that. Reluctantly, he lets her go.

They prowl the shoreline, moving slowly now, examining the rocks as they go. They don't get far before they find where Senna entered the lake, rocks displaced by running feet, leaving muddy holes crusted with ice. Unfortunately, Sinbad can't read anything more from the tracks left in the rocks. He can't tell how far the creature followed—if it went to the water's edge or stopped before, or even attempted to enter the water itself. He looks at the silent forest, following the path of Senna's tracks. They're easy to spot; she was running for her life, no longer using the skills of a seasoned hunter.

"Do you want to follow them?"

"Let's finish circling the lake first. If we find nothing else, we can come back here."

She accepts this without argument, no longer insistent that they should split up. Sinbad is beyond relieved. Danger follows her because of what she is, and he can't protect her if she's not with him.

They pace the shoreline of the large mountain lake slowly, but find no further clues. The smooth rocks don't show tracks as mud or smaller gravel would, and the creature, whatever it is, has left nothing else behind—no fur, no scat, nothing that he or Maeve can identify as out of place. They find ample evidence of other animals, namely deer and smaller furry things, but nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing they cannot place.

The lake is big, and they're thorough. By the time they've circled back to the disturbed rocks where Senna entered the water, the afternoon has shifted to evening. Night falls swiftly during northern winters. Sinbad isn't used to such short days, such cold, thin light. He can feel his body responding to the change, more sluggish than usual, as if it wants to sleep through winter like a bear.

"Do people in the far north hibernate?" he asks abruptly. Once the question is out it sounds stupid even to his own ears, but Maeve, to his surprise, doesn't laugh.

"Sort of." She looks toward the trees, where night already huddles, deep and foreboding. "Lachlan comes from far, far to the north."

"Is that why he's the color of ice?"

"Aye. Where his clan lives, the sun never sets in summer, and never rises in winter."

"Bullshit."

"It's true. I've seen it for myself." She steps toward the trees. Sinbad would rather wait until morning light, but he follows. He's not about to let her go alone. "Even in Eire, which is much further south, crops don't grow in winter. There's time for rest, and the dark and cold make people drowsy." She frowns and ducks behind a large tree. Sinbad lurches after her as her form vanishes into the shadowy undergrowth.

"Don't disappear on me like that!" he snaps, startled when she straightens some distance from where he last saw her. It's been a long day, and they didn't stop for a noon break or meal. He's hungry and starting to get testy.

She ignores the order, holding up something in her hand. It's too dark for him to see, and he wades through the stiff bushes toward her, thick, barbed leaves catching at his linen _sirwal_. When he reaches her he puts his hands on her waist, letting her fire bleed into his numb skin. It soothes him slightly. "That's a shirt."

She brings the stained linen to her nose and inhales. "Senna's."

He expected as much.

"She was naked when you pulled her out. I don't know if you remember that."

"I don't remember anything," he says truthfully. "And hunting in the dark is useless, at least for us humans. Is there a treehouse near here?"

"Aye." She tosses the linen over her shoulder and kisses his mouth lightly. "Come on, then. You're grumpy, which means it's time to eat."

A sudden sound of crunching underbrush hits their ears. Sinbad freezes, hands clamping down hard on her body in a reflexive attempt to keep her close, keep her safe. She's tense under his hands, and he feels her fire flare hotter momentarily, a reaction to being startled.

Something moves on the other side of the tree.

Maeve lifts her head and inhales. Sinbad does the same, though his senses were not trained by the Fae. Right now he smells her, and if he concentrates, the sharp, cold scent of the mountain. Nothing else.

She relaxes, and pulls away from his hard hands. "Doe," she says softly, and steps around the tree trunk.

She's correct. One doe watches them curiously from the distance of a few yards. Her large ears flick and swivel. She observes them in the nearly-black night, then returns to nibbling the rustling undergrowth.

Sinbad allows himself to breathe a little deeper. Deer are not intelligent creatures, but they're wary, and if this one is browsing so openly there can't be any danger nearby. He touches Maeve's hip gently and drops his head to kiss her shoulder.

"Don't grab me like that again," she says, shoving at him. "How can I run if need be, with your hands in the way?"

"I was afraid you'd run toward the danger, not away." She has a point, but it was a reflex. He hadn't actually meant to do it. "And who's grumpy now?"

She makes a face at him. He can't see it in the darkness, but her silence is telling. They're both hungry and on edge—nothing a hot meal and a hotter fuck won't put right. He takes her hand and brings it to his mouth, kissing her palm. She's so warm, and he wants nothing more in the world than to be back in a cramped little treehouse with her, safe and alone.

"I'm not grumpy, I'm hungry," she says, pushing past him, heading into the darkness. He follows. His night vision is starting to kick in, but following her in the dark is still difficult. He's tempted to put a hand on her once more, to be sure of her, but she's not in a good mood and he doesn't want to start a fight.

Behind them, the doe screams. Underbrush crashes—a second high, strangled bleat cuts abruptly short.

"Run." Sinbad shoves her hard.

She grabs his hand firmly in hers and does.

She knows where she's going, which is good, because he sure as hell doesn't. Anyplace far away is fine with him. They scramble up a steep, gravelly incline and Sinbad catches his toe on a protruding tree root, pitching forward. He rights himself before falling, but loses her hand. Fear ratchets toward panic—in the deep night under the trees, he can't see her. Normally he would call out for her, but he's not about to make a noise something behind them might hear.

A moment later a soft, warm light appears ahead and slightly to his left. It ruins what little night vision he had but he sees her, a softer shadow among shadows, holding a tiny flame cupped in one palm. He closes the distance between them swiftly.

"Don't worry. I won't leave you." She begins to close her hand, snuffing the flame.

"Leave it," he says, stopping her with a hand on her wrist. "I can follow that little light more safely than holding hands." He can follow a light, will follow her anywhere, but they'll both struggle if they try to keep hold of each other while running.

She obeys, holding the tiny flame near her shoulder as she darts forward once more, resuming their flight. They crash through more prickly bushes; Sinbad feels his _sirwal_ tear. His boots land heavily in icy mud and he swears, forcing them free as the mire sucks at him. Maeve is lighter and fares better but he can see her tiring slowly. It's just a tiny flame but she has to concentrate on it while navigating the black woods at a run, and he has no doubt the double task is more difficult than it seems.

Maeve skids to a halt after putting at least a mile between them and the unseen attacker. "Here," she pants, breathless, and snuffs the fire in her palm. She reaches up the side of a sturdy broadleaf tree. "Give me a boost."

He cups her bent knee in his hands and lifts easily, raising her high enough to catch the rope ladder tucked into a tall fork. It drops and she latches on, hoisting herself swiftly to the platform above. Sinbad is right behind her. He pulls the rope ladder up after them, not just to the fork where she found it, but all the way onto the platform. It won't stop something that can climb, but it's better than nothing.

They enter the tiny treehouse and he latches the door firmly behind him. Part of him wishes for a window so he could see out, but a window will also let out light, showing anything outside exactly where they are.

Maeve fumbles in the dark, swearing when she finds the metal brazier by banging her shin on it. She conjures fire in her cupped hands and drops it into the metal bowl, where it burns happily without fuel until, no longer blind, she finds the sack of charcoal and shakes a good amount into the brazier. Fuck, Sinbad loves her magic.

And her.

The treehouse is identical to the one they slept in the night he met her. It's uncomfortably cramped, and he doesn't care. Once they have light he pulls her close, holding the living warmth of her tight against his body. She unlaces the front of his borrowed jacket and tucks herself underneath it. Her warmth bleeds into him. He strokes her wild red curls and kisses her mouth hard, cupping her cheek in his palm.

She kisses him back, mouth fire-sweet, her taste of smoke and honey melting on his tongue. She's okay, he tries to tell himself. She's fine. Yes, there's something out there in those woods, but they already knew that.

"Werewolf?" he asks when he finally eases his mouth from hers.

The expression on her lovely face is troubled. "I don't think so. I would have smelled them."

"Regular wolf?"

"I should have smelled that, too." She pulls away slightly and drops Senna's discarded shirt in a corner. "I smell blood."

"It's just those damn bushes." He pulls at his sirwal, exposing the tears in the thin linen fabric.

"Holly." She inspects a scratch just above his knee. "I couldn't see shit out there. At least I didn't run us into any briar thickets." She touches his waist. "I'm sorry. You'll have to live with your scratches for now. I can deal with burns but I'm no healer."

Scratches are nothing. He sits and draws her down with him, settling the warmth of her firmly in his arms. He wants that heat, but he also wants the reassurance of her body against his, hale and unharmed. They may well have narrowly avoided an encounter with the creature they seek. They need to find it, but not in the black of night with no torches or lanterns. Even he can't fight what he can't see.

She exhales a deep breath, leaning her head against his shoulder. He can feel her body begin to relax, some of the tension leaking from her now that they're safe. "Are you hungry?"

"Very." But not for food. Not after that scare. He strokes her bright hair away from her face and lifts her chin with his fingers.

She needs no urging. Her kiss is raw and hungry, and her hands move to pull his borrowed jacket from his arms. Her heat surrounds him and he surrenders to his need, peeling her out of her tight leather clothes.

The rough wooden floor is no place to lay her sweet skin and his hands are too full of her to reach the woolen bedroll stowed in a corner, so he lets her straddle his waist and ride him, as she likes to do. She curls and rocks on his lap, his hands cupping that gorgeous ass, pulling her onto him, urging her to take him hard and fast. It's hungry and desperate, blunting just the edge of his need, yet infinitely soothing to the part of him determined to protect her, urgently striving to keep her safe. She's fine—warm and alive, needy and panting, mouth locked with his, then ripped away as she curses tightly and comes around him.

He shatters with her, pumping deep, holding himself within that exquisite body. She's so beautiful. So incredibly special. She keeps thinking she can scare him, but instead of fear he's continually filled with awe. One hand releases her, rising to stroke her cheek. She's flushed and pink with pleasure, her smoke-sweet taste blissfully perfect when he licks her lips. He loves how her body shudders with swift little aftershocks, tightening gently around him as he softens inside her. Loves how her taste strengthens when she comes, and how she lets him slip a hand between them, stroking her clit slowly, lovingly, easing her tenderly into a second orgasm. He's hard again and still craving her, and he settles to his back on the rough floor so he has better leverage to fuck her. His hands cover her breasts, stroke and pinch her pink nipples. He's going to have splinters in his ass, and it's totally worth it.

By the time they're finally sated, the fire is nearly out. Sinbad reluctantly lets her out of his arms. He's amused when she doesn't bother donning her discarded clothes before adding more charcoal to the brazier.

He watched her cook last time, so he knows his way around now. He pulls his _sirwal_ back on—she may be impervious to sparks but his cock's not—and takes the stiff linen bag of provisions from its hook on the ceiling. Inside he finds the same fare as in the other treehouse, which is fine with him. He retrieves his knife and begins slicing an onion as she takes the sausage. She chooses a turnip rather than an apple this time. Sinbad stirs the food with his knife as it cooks, welcoming the warmth of Maeve's body back into his arms. She settles against his bare chest, her body softly content.

"We shouldn't have run." He doubts she actually means it. Her voice is drowsy and slow, the heat of her naked body delicious against his bare chest.

"We absolutely should have." He uses a fold of his borrowed jacket to shield his hand as he shakes the pan. The food sizzles and pops; he's starving, but half-cooked onion and turnip is almost worse than no food at all, so he forces himself to wait. "I couldn't see a damn thing, and even though you were raised by the Fae I doubt you could, either."

"No," she agrees. "You can sharpen your senses in many ways through training, but not night vision. But I can make light."

"And fight an unknown adversary at the same time?" He gives her a doubtful look.

She wants to be convinced, so she doesn't argue any further. She stirs the food with two fingers, heedless of the searing heat.

"Thank you for making that light, by the way. In the forest." He wraps an arm around her, holding the warmth of her to him. After a day freezing his ass off in the dry, aching cold, this tiny treehouse holds everything he wants. Fire and food, yes, but more importantly her.

"I couldn't just leave you. I'd never do that."

Those are very dangerous words. Sinbad swallows hard as she burrows against him, so sweet now that she feels safe behind the latched door, well fucked and nearly fed. He wants that "never" to truly mean _never—_wants her to stay with him always. He's known her so briefly, but that much has been clear to him almost from the beginning. He wants her to come with him when he sails back south, wants to show her his world. Maybe Dim-Dim knows what she is and can explain this confusing magic, the inner fire she doesn't understand and can't always control. Regardless, he wants things from her he's never wanted before. He wants her to sail with him. Bear his children. Be his.

But would she? He doesn't know. She already straddles two worlds, Celt and Fae, and he doesn't know if she wants a third. Or him. She likes the way he touches her, but that's not enough to build a life on.

He drops his head to kiss her shoulder, inhaling the smoke-sweet scent of her deep into his chest. Bringing forth his own inner strength, he forces himself to stop dwelling on the future and what might or might not be. Right now, in this moment, she's his. She's pliant and warm, fire-sweet, and they're about to fill their stomachs and collapse. He'll hold her tight, fuck her again at some point during the night, and sleep with the living flame of her pressed close to his chest. Danger may find them tomorrow, but tonight they're safe. Tonight she's his. He's thankful. He can be content.

They eat quickly, then unroll the woolen bedroll. Sinbad places himself between Maeve and the door as he settles for the night. If anything comes through that door, it will have to get past him first before it finds her. She's strong and capable and he'd never accuse her of being otherwise, but he's still more comfortable with her as far from danger as possible.

"I was raised by my tutor and my older brother." Sinbad strokes the deliciously warm skin of Maeve's bare back.

"I know. You told me before." She curls into his side just the way he likes, warm and sleek and perfect. Her lips touch his jaw.

"My tutor—ex-tutor now—is advisor to the caliph of Baghdad, and a learned sorcerer. I'm curious whether he might know what you are."

"Why does it matter?" She kisses his mouth, giving his upper lip a sharp little nip. "Putting a name to this fire won't change it."

"And I don't want to." Never. She's perfect just the way she is. "But aren't you curious at all? Whether there are others out there like you?"

She considers. This is clearly something she's never thought about before. She slides further on top of him, slipping a leg over his abdomen, her honey-dark eyes thoughtful. Fuck, it's hard to concentrate when she does that. The sweet, wet heat between her spread legs is so fucking close to his cock; it wakes, hungry for her. He touches her cheek with his fingertips, reveling in her warmth.

"I guess I never thought about it," she says, one thumb stroking his chest, tickling his sparse hair. "I've always been alone in that respect." Her delicate eyebrows draw together, but she doesn't elaborate.

"But what if you're not? What if there are others?" He grimaces slightly. "Lachlan said there's rarely ever one of anything, and I hate to say it but he's right."

Maeve makes a face. "He meant the creature, not me. I'm still human, remember?"

Oh, he remembers. His body is all too aware of her very human nature. His cock is stiff and aching between her sprawled legs as she straddles his belly, too far up his abdomen for any relief. He cups her sweet ass and squeezes, kneading that firm, gorgeous flesh. "You don't have to remind me," he promises. He loves her fire, but it's her humanity that calls to him the most. One hand curls around the dangerous lower curve of her buttock, finding the tender inside of her thigh, then the molten slickness of that sweet cunt.

"Fuck," she hisses, and presses back against him. Her hot flesh meets the swollen length of his cock and she moans low. "More."

He rolls them over and takes her, pressing into her sweet heat, drowning in bliss the moment her body yields, taking his length into her. She's so tight around him, this feeling so fucking good. He can't concentrate on conversation, can't do anything but surrender to her, to what they are together. His mouth finds hers and he kisses her deep, sucking on her tongue, smoke and honey, hot-sweet. Later he'll try the subject again, but their bodies want to communicate right now, a connection deeper, older than any language, human or Fae. Sex has never meant love to him before, but now, with Maeve, it does. He hopes she understands what he's saying with each kiss, every movement of his body. He's all hers. Whether she comes with him when this mess is over or not, he'll always be hers. He'll never be the same again.


	7. Chapter 7

**The Mountain**

Pairing: Maeve/Sinbad  
Rating: M  
Setting: Alternate  
All standard disclaimers apply

* * *

They retrace their steps early the next morning, the mountain bitterly cold, a dark, low sky once again threatening snow. Maeve says she can smell it on the wind. All Sinbad can smell is the mountain itself, sharp, cold, like the spiky pine and spruce trees they push through, heading back toward the lake. He's in a better mood after a warm night's rest, though he slept lightly, awakened by every little sound. He isn't usually a worrier, but having Maeve by his side brings it out in him. She's strong and capable, he knows she is. But he's a protector by nature and he can't help that instinct.

The forest feels dull and lifeless as they walk. Most of the trees have lost their leaves and present bone-bare branches to the sky. No birds sing. No squirrels race from the sound of their feet. The bitter wind is their only company. He's never lonely on the open sea, but here the silence hovers around them, close and oppressive. He feels keenly that they don't belong in this forest, and the uneasy sense refuses to leave him no matter how far they push forward.

"I don't like this," he mutters as they cross the large muddy patch he slipped in last night. It's frozen now, but he can see his deep, squelching footprints from the night before. They'll remain until a good thaw thins the mud—possibly weeks. Possibly months.

"I know. You miss the south." Maeve's voice is gentler than he expected.

That's not what he means, but he doesn't correct her. He does miss the south. He misses his world, where he knows how things work. Where he belongs. He misses his brother and his mentor, his crew down in the lowlands. His little ship. Hell, he misses fucking _sunshine_. The constant biting cold can't possibly be healthy, can it?

"Tell me what it's like." Maeve pauses and looks at him, dark honey eyes softly warm. "I've heard stories, of course, but it's hard to know what to believe."

Yes, it's difficult to tell fact from fiction at so great a distance. He has a hard time believing tales of the far north—tales of endless dark winters, snow heaped higher than a man. Great white bears that swim like fish, whales with horns like unicorns. He wonders what Maeve would say about some of the things he's heard.

"How far south have you been?"

"This is the furthest. By far." She skirts an outcropping of granite, its southern face covered with pale lichen. "Otherwise, probably the old Roman garrison at Lutetia."

Sinbad grins. "This time it's your map that's wrong. They're calling it Paris now."

"Paris." She tests the word on her tongue, then shakes her head. "I don't like it. Sounds too much like piss." The golden glints in her red hair glisten in the dead gray light. She's the brightest thing he can see, the brightest thing in this whole fucking forest. "Tell me about the south."

Gladly. He badly wants her to come with him when he leaves, and her interest gives him hope. "It's nothing like this damnable mountain. Probably nothing like your homeland, either." He ducks away from a clump of those wicked spiny bushes Maeve called holly. "It's always warm. Most always dry, save for a short rainy season. There are more people—the cities are bigger, and towns are closer together."

"That tells me nothing." She stops walking for a moment and appraises him. "I know you're no poet, but you can do better than that. What does it smell like? Taste like? What do you miss about it?"

He blows out a breath, considering. She's right that he's no poet. He's a man of action; words are not his forte. But for her, he'll try. He inhales a deep lungful of the frigid mountain air. It feels so different from what he's used to, and he struggles to tell her why. "This place smells dead," he says slowly. "I know it isn't. I can see the green pines and that awful holly. But without the heat of the sun, everything feels lifeless."

"I've heard tales of deserts," Maeve says. "Waterless sand stretching for leagues, with no plants or animals. Heat that kills men as easily as any snowstorm."

"Aye," Sinbad acknowledges. "Nature's dangers are as real in the south as they are here. But deserts aren't dead, as much as they may seem it. Water springs from the ground at oases, where plants thrive. The nomads who live in the desert know where to find water and how to survive the heat, just as the animals do."

"You're a nomad, too." Her smile melts him despite the mountain's freezing temperature. She's so beautiful, and when she looks at him like that, with her full attention, he swears he's been given the world.

"I am," he agrees. "Does that bother you?" He flies on the wind. Sparks of flame do, too. He's positive she'd thrive traveling with him. But would she want to?

"Why would it bother me?" She tips her head to the side ever so slightly, a questioning gesture. "You are what you are. I have no wish to change you."

He doesn't want to change her, either. Not really. He'd love if she took more care with her own safety, but then, fire isn't a cautious element. It's bold and fierce and free—as is she.

"Come here." He wraps his frozen fingers around her delicate wrist, drawing her close. She comes willingly, her lovely mouth rising to touch his, her kiss wonderfully, blessedly warm. He loves that sweet mouth, lips full and lush as he caresses them, honey and smoke on his tongue. "No girl I've ever met, north or south, compares to you."

"Nor will they." She grins against his mouth and kisses him again.

No, they won't. He's a wanderer and he has no idea where his travels will take him next, but he knows he'll never find a woman who can compare with this one. She's it for him. He has to make her understand that.

But not right now. He reluctantly lets her step away when she ends the kiss, resuming their trek through the desolate winter woods. "What were you doing in Paris?" he asks, to keep the oppressive silence at bay.

"Not much." She glances at him and wrinkles her pretty nose before ducking under a low branch. "Riona had to meet with the king of the Franks and she took me with her as part of her retinue. Court visits are boring. I couldn't explore at all."

He chuckles. The noise sounds all wrong in the heavy, silent forest, and he shudders. "I know you work for your queen, but I can't see you as a courtier."

"I'm a terrible one," she agrees, and she grins at him with the feral ferocity of her wild people. "I have no patience for all that courtly bullshit. When she asks me to join her in that capacity I'm more of a bodyguard than anything else. Gods know I'm no good as a lady-in-waiting."

Sinbad wants to laugh again but stops himself; the sound feels too wrong in this place. He can understand Maeve's queen wanting to keep her close—she's more than beautiful enough to keep company with the ruling elite, and so long as she curbs her tongue no one would suspect the tall, willowy girl to be the deadly threat she absolutely is. Having a literal flamethrower by her side must make the Fae queen's life much less stressful.

However, it's a potential problem for him. "She relies on you a lot, doesn't she?"

Maeve shrugs as they walk. "Some," she allows. "I'm happy to be of service, and grateful for her favor. Eire is not a peaceful place, Sinbad. Celts come by our bloody reputation honestly. I hate court but I'm better off there than I would be otherwise. I try to remember that."

"Are you her vassal?" This is the crucial question. If she's given an oath of service, that means she'll need her queen's permission to leave—permission that might not be granted if Riona considers her service indispensable. There's no one else like her—no one with her strange, powerful fire magic, her fighting spirit and skill. No one can take her place in his heart, but no one could take her place at her queen's side, either.

"Oh, aye." Her curious glance tells him she finds this an odd question. "How else could she trust me?"

"I just wondered." He skirts a muddy spot and gets a faceful of bare twigs instead. "I've worked for the caliph of Baghdad a number of times. The sultan of Basra. Some other rulers. But I've never sworn an oath to any."

"Mm." She looks up at the dark, low sky and frowns. "Things must be different in the south. We're constantly at war with someone. Usually multiple someones." She stifles a weary sigh and continues walking. "Without oaths of allegiance, I don't think Riona could rule."

Which makes sense, but it puts Sinbad in a difficult situation. He doesn't want to force Maeve to choose between him and her oath—even were he sure she'd choose him, which he isn't. It just doesn't feel right. But he can't lose her. He loves her too much.

"Things are different in the south," he agrees, speaking slowly, struggling to keep the inner turmoil out of his voice. They pass a clump of holly with threads of his blue_ sirwal _still clinging to the needle-sharp leaves. Yes, they definitely ran by here last night. "The caliph rules mostly through veneration. He isn't considered a god, as pharaohs were, but he has a godly mandate, if that makes sense?"

"Oh, aye. Though I don't have much use for religion, personally." She scrambles up a short, steep rise, her movements swift and graceful.

"The sultan of Basra rules...through intimidation, to be honest." Sinbad starts to chuckle again, but quickly squelches the sound. "Or, he did. He's softened as he's aged. They used to call him the Savage Sultan but I think those days are behind him." He hopes, anyway. Before he was born the caliph and sultan warred fiercely and many people lost their lives. He doesn't want to see that happen again, or be forced to pick a side.

"A sultan." She shakes her head. "Brings to mind stories the traveling players tell, full of strange eastern magic. Spices and silks and secrets." She turns to him and grins playfully. "I suspect the truth is somewhat more pedestrian."

He'll show it to her. If she agrees, he'll show her the world. "I don't know. I've seen my share of all of those things." He doesn't know what sort of stories circulate where Maeve is from, but he suspects there's probably a grain of truth to them. "Basra is a haven for magicians. My mentor's close friend Cairpra lives there. She's the wisest woman I've ever met." He'd say the most powerful, too, except now he's met Maeve. She's not nearly so learned as Cairpra, but he has no doubt she's more powerful. "I'd love for you to meet her."

Maeve's look is skeptical. "That's far, Sinbad."

"So is this." He forces his voice to remain light. She's not ready to hear how serious he is. He needs to give her time.

"It is," she allows, "but I traveled by magic, not ship."

"You'd like sailing." He thinks. He hopes. He can imagine her standing at the bow of his ship, the wind tossing her hair like flames. "Nothing feels more free."

There's a sharp, curious gleam in her eyes that heartens him. She's intrigued, at least, and that's good. "I don't know," she says. "Lachlan sailed from his clan in the far north to Aven when he entered the queen's service. He was sick and miserable the whole time."

Sinbad snorts. "You're tougher than he is." The iceman may be a strong and knowledgeable fighter but Maeve is wildfire at her core. A rocking ship won't stop her.

"Look." She darts into the underbrush, surfacing a moment later with a boot in her hand.

"Senna's." Sinbad doesn't have to ask. The leather boot is scuffed and muddy, obviously well used, but it hasn't been lying in the forest duff for long. "The question is why she stripped." He looks carefully around. They're not yet at the spot where Maeve found the shirt, which means she didn't remove her clothes all at once.

"That's easy." Maeve looks grim. "It's how you try to throw werewolves off your scent when you're being stalked. Hurl your clothes and anything you're carrying, anything that smells like you. It doesn't work, but hunted people are desperate." She rubs the muddy leather gently between her fingers.

"Did Senna think there were werewolves behind her?"

"Or she just tried anything she could." She drops the boot and rubs her hands together. For a moment she almost looks cold, but her flame burns as bright as always. Sinbad can feel it. He frowns and steps closer, just stopping himself from reaching for her. He wants to ask if she's okay, but she won't welcome his worry.

"You're not afraid of werewolves." He's seen her taunt them, fight them. She was in her element. She _loved_ it. If she's afraid, it's not of those hulking beast-men.

"No. And they don't tend to hunt Fae. Not if they can find anything else."

"You mentioned that before. Why don't they?"

She shrugs. "Never asked. Never cared. But they don't hunt Fae and they don't hunt alone. This isn't the dead of winter yet, when packs get desperate. Senna should have known her hunter probably wasn't a werewolf."

He places his hand lightly on her hip. Not for warmth, though he'll freeze if they don't start moving again soon. Just because he wants to. He likes the feel of her under his palm, against his fingers. It comforts him, though he's not frightened. "So she knew she was being chased by something else, but didn't know what to do."

"Must have." Maeve nods slightly as if to herself, and starts forward again. As they near the scene of last night's attack, Sinbad starts to see more signs of their flight. He sees bent and broken twigs, threads of their clothing caught here and there, and in one instance a small lock of Maeve's fire-bright hair tangled in a pine branch, unmistakable even with the dark sky threatening snow.

The forest keeps them close, pressing them together, large trees and sprawling underbrush forcing them to walk single-file as they close in on the scene of the attack. He struggles to understand what happened, to piece together Senna's flight and also whatever they ran from last night. In daylight, however dim, he studies the landscape. He knows how to track and is surprisingly good at it for a sailor, and he knows they're currently following the path of Senna's terrified flight. The silence of the forest presses heavily on him; he hates it. He wants to hear the friendly bustle of a market town, the creaks and pops of his wooden ship underneath him. Anything but this desolate quiet.

"Oh." Maeve stops suddenly. Sinbad stumbles into her and opens his mouth to rebuke her, but words fail him.

The doe they saw last night is here. Most of it, anyway. He thinks. Dried, rust-brown blood coats the ground and the nearest tree trunks. The animal has been ripped apart. Its head rests in a nest of ferns several yards from the bulk of its torso, the ribcage snapped open as easily as he might snap a wishbone. He steps cautiously, frozen blood crunching under his feet as he approaches the carcass. Something tore this animal apart. Not with teeth. Not with claws. He sees none of the telltale marks that would explain what did this. His hackles rise, though he has no idea why. The forest is no more silent than it was a moment ago. He smells nothing, hears nothing but the faint whisper of wind high in the trees.

Maeve rubs her arms, scowling furiously as she hugs herself. She's not cold; she's never cold. He knows exactly how she feels without asking. The goosebumps on his arms have nothing to do with the temperature, either. She's far more in-tune with this forest than he, and has every right to be unnerved. "This is ridiculous." Her voice holds indignant anger. She's more comfortable with anger than she is with fear. "I've brought down countless deer. I shouldn't feel bad for this one. But I do."

"Me, too." Something prickles the back of his neck. He really, really doesn't want to be here. More than that, his protective instinct doesn't want _her_ here. His senses can't detect any obvious signs of danger and neither can hers, but they both feel it. They shouldn't be here.

He steps closer to the bulk of the carcass, hating the crunch of frozen blood under his feet. It sends uneasy shivers vibrating up his spine, and he clenches his jaw against them as he kneels. One knee pops, the sound agonizingly loud in the silent forest. Studying the carcass up close, he's even more perplexed. Nothing has attempted to scavenge from it. He can see the heart and liver clearly, choice bits usually long gone by now. Meat clings to the broken ribs, red and glistening, no tooth-marks visible anywhere. Not even those of little foraging things, vermin or birds of prey.

And that makes less sense than anything else he's seen so far here on this fucking mountain. _Something_ killed this animal. Ripped it to pieces, in fact. He heard the poor thing's screams last night, and sees the result before him now. The power with which its ribcage was broken speaks of strength, possibly incredible hunger or rage as well. But whatever killed this deer did not eat.

"What kills but doesn't eat?"

"Huh?" Maeve looks up from her perusal of the head. The poor dead thing's tongue lolls from its mouth, purple and swollen.

"What kills but doesn't eat?"

"It didn't eat?" She tucks a bright curl behind an ear and joins him at the main carcass. The hindquarters have been ripped nearly away, hanging by tough white strings of ligament coated in blood. Sinbad watches her keen eyes move over the gore, seeing exactly what he sees. No bite marks. No claw marks. And, by the same token, no knife marks, either. This was no practiced butchery, but a burst of savagery the like of which he's never seen. An animal literally ripped to pieces, but not eaten.

She exhales a low breath, shaking her head slowly. "I don't know. I mean, we do."

"We do?"

"Humans kill for sport. For war. For revenge—anger. Fae do, too, to a lesser degree. I don't know of anything else. Not even those gods-be-damned werewolves." She rolls her head back slowly on her neck, as if her shoulders are sore. "Fuck."

"It appears that at least one other being on this mountain kills without eating." He rises to his feet, feeling too vulnerable crouched over the carcass. He still cannot hear anything suspicious, cannot see any movement in the forest around them, but his instincts scream a constant warning. He shifts closer to Maeve, his eyes on the forest, his hand near his saber. "A single human couldn't do this." He nods at the bloody mess before them. "Not empty-handed. Could a Fae?"

She shakes her head. "Their senses are better than ours but they're no stronger physically. A werewolf could in wolf-shape, but that would leave marks." Claw marks. Tooth marks. Marks this carcass does not bear.

"So we don't know what did it." Except he does. It's the creature they're hunting. His gut knows it, logic be damned. "What about why? Not war. Sport?"

"No." Maeve's voice is firm, definitive. "There's way too much anger here for sport. The way it's ripped apart—that's rage, Sinbad."

Yeah, he knows. People kill out of rage, but do other creatures? He's definitely seen a cornered bear display fury, but this attack was wholly unprovoked. "There's magic here. Or maybe not magic, but something unnatural. Something outside of nature." He doesn't have the words to explain what he feels, but he feels it with everything he is.

For once, they're in full agreement. "Whatever this thing is, it goes against everything I know about the natural world."

Him, too, and he knows better than to assume it's just the distance from his homeland speaking. Nature doesn't change this drastically. Animals do not kill without eating. Not like this. Not with this rage.

Maeve brushes her cheek against his leather-clad shoulder—a strangely touching gesture. Her honey-colored eyes are troubled, a sharp line creased between her delicate eyebrows. "I don't understand, and I hate it. My intuition tells me this is hunger. But…" She gestures helplessly at the ruined mess of a carcass. "Desperation, maybe? A different kind of hunger?"

She may be onto something. "If so, I don't think it got what it wanted."

"No," she agrees, "it didn't."

Which means it's still out there. Still looking. The back of Sinbad's neck prickles further. Maeve isn't using her fire as a lure right now but he can feel it next to him, warm and infinitely soothing. He sets his mouth gently against her soft red curls, breathing her in, half expecting her to push him away. She doesn't. Instead she settles her leather-clad body alongside his and brushes her lips across his jaw. A pang of sweet pain hits him hard.

"What now?" Her voice is soft, her eyes still trained on the forest. Whatever's making him uneasy, she feels it, too.

"That is the question, isn't it?" Their task hasn't changed. They need to find this creature and kill it. The Fae in their mountain clans and the humans down below are counting on them. He just doesn't know how to find the beast while maintaining control over the situation. Last night they could have attacked it, but his gut tells him they would have lost. Surprised and unable to see, they were wholly unprepared. That can't happen again.

Despite his reservations about using Maeve as bait, Sinbad's mind keeps returning to her magic. Tracking a canny predator takes time—in India, where man-eating tigers roam the jungle, skilled hunters often need months to find and kill a dangerous beast. Sinbad has no doubt they're dealing with something far worse than a cat here. He wants it dead _now_, and not just because he hates being on this mountain. The longer it's out there, the more people will go missing. Dead, he's sure. He held out hope before, but after seeing this carcass he doesn't anymore. Senna's missing husband is dead. Tetsu too, most likely. He hates it, but he has to face facts.

With normal tracking methods too slow, the only other thing he can think to try is Maeve's magic. He wants her as far from danger as possible and hates the thought of using her as bait—particularly because she's been in that position before, sent here specifically to lure this creature with her tempting warmth. But maybe there's another way.

"The werewolves followed the heat of your fire straight to you," he says slowly, trying to pull his scattered thoughts into a cohesive shape.

"Sure. And I'm happy to be a lure. But we tried that yesterday and it didn't work."

"I'm not so sure about that." His gut sinks past his feet as realization hits him, stark and sharp as the icy mountain. Maeve was using her fire, bright and hot as a beacon, while they prowled the banks of the nearby lake and came this way, finding Senna's cast-off shirt and then the doe. She was using her fire. They were right here.

"Oh." She swallows hard. Her white throat flashes in the weak winter light. "This is my fault."

"No." His sword hand remains near his saber but his other hand reaches to hold her hip, cupping the smooth knob of bone in his palm. "I told you to do it. I'm just grateful that thing, whatever it is, found the deer instead of you."

"You're not my captain. I didn't have to listen to you." Her fire flickers, but there's little heat in her words. The realization that the creature was in all likelihood hunting her and found the doe instead has shaken her. Sorcha may call her reckless but she's not foolhardy. She can see with her own eyes the ruined carcass, the danger she was in.

Sinbad hates it. His jaw clenches down, teeth aching under the pressure, but he can't make himself stop. Both hands wrap around her waist, holding her tightly to him. He's known from the beginning that the danger here is real, but only now does he feel the true weight of it. The lure worked—the creature wanted her. Came searching for her. Only dumb luck and its inability to hone in on the source of Maeve's fire saved her.

"We're not doing that again." No fucking way. Not now that he sees what this thing is capable of. He can feel its rage in every shattered bone and torn muscle of the dead doe. The creature wanted Maeve, wanted her fire. This is the result of its denial. He doesn't know what it would have done to Maeve if it caught her and he doesn't care to know. He's not risking her like that again.

"We may not have a choice."

"There's always a choice." Maybe not always a good one, but there's always a choice. Right now, he's making one. She's his. This creature, whatever it is, can't have her. "Hear me out. Your fire. It's your life-force, isn't it? Your soul?"

She shrugs. "I guess. I never really thought about it before. It's just...part of me. Like my heartbeat."

Fair enough. "I have no magic of my own, but my mentor is a powerful sorcerer. He's said before that all magical beings have an...an aura, I guess you'd say." He struggles to remember long-ago lectures, things he never thought he'd need to recall. "If he were here, I suspect he'd be able to trace this creature's aura, like the werewolves tracked you. Do you think you could do the same?"

She cocks her head to the side, considering the question. She's always lovely, but he particularly likes this studious look on her. It makes him wonder how much schooling she's had. She said she received a better education than most human girls, but that could mean almost anything. He doubts she's had much training in magic, if any. Her fire is too unique. It doesn't work like regular human magic, or Fae magic either, she says. What she knows must be gleaned purely from trial and error, a harrowing concept when playing with fire. He wants so badly to bring her south, not only for himself, but for her as well. Basra is the seat of magical knowledge; surely someone there must know what she is? She'll love Dim-Dim because everyone loves Dim-Dim, and he suspects she would get along well with Cairpra, too. The older sorceress's no-nonsense demeanor reminds him strongly of Sorcha, the Fae healer. The knowledge they may be able to give her about herself could be invaluable.

If Sinbad can keep her alive through this. He watches her, hands firm at her hips, the living warmth of her bleeding into him, thawing his frozen flesh. The first flakes of snow begin to fall, small and dense, like powdery sand. He's grateful for the fur-lined jacket provided by Odhran, but the rest of him is fucking freezing and he braces for worse as the snow begins.

"I don't know if I can do it," she says finally. "I'm happy to try, but I'm warning you. This magic didn't exactly come with a training manual." The corner of her mouth curves ever so slightly with caustic humor.

"You wouldn't read the manual anyway, even if it did."

Her sweet, mocking mouth broadens into a true smile. "I might. If I got in enough trouble."

That's his girl. He hugs her tight for a long moment before releasing her. He always wants to touch her, but she doesn't like him hovering and he does his best to respect that despite his protective instinct.

Right now, that protective instinct is raging. He's not entirely sure what he's asking of her, or what will happen when she tries. That mess in the infirmary took a lot out of her and he doesn't want to accidentally do that again. It worked—he can't say it didn't work. But the spell didn't go as Sorcha planned, and Maeve nearly lost control. That can't happen out here. They're too vulnerable.

"Are you sure this is what you want to do?" she asks, as if she can read his mind. "I don't mind trying. But, as you may have noticed, hardly anybody trusts my fire for anything but defense."

And for good reason. She has very little control over it, as he's learning. "Do you have any better ideas?"

"No." She tips her head up to the snowy sky, scowling at the cold little flakes before resettling her attention on him. The snow melts instantly when it touches her, and her bright curls steam ever so slightly as they dampen.

"Wait. Before you do anything, is the treehouse we used last night the closest one?"

"Aye." She looks at him curiously. "Why?"

"Just checking." He's pretty sure he can find his way back to it if need be, if she tires herself out too much in this attempt. She has a key, too, but he doesn't know how to use it and doubts Lachlan would consider a tired sorceress an emergency, anyway.

She rolls her eyes at him, suddenly looking much more like herself. "You act like I'm going to suddenly drop dead. I'm not some swooning southern maiden."

He knows. He definitely knows. She's wildfire, and he loves it. But that fire is unpredictable, and he likes being prepared for any eventuality. He kisses her sweet mouth gently. "I never, ever expect you to swoon. Promise."

"You better not." She touches her mouth to his once more before stepping back, eyeing the cold carcass at their feet, considering her next move. "I don't really know what I'm doing."

"I know." He smiles. "I trust you anyway."

The look she gives him is...odd. Almost sad? He doesn't really understand women in general, this one in particular. But gods, he loves her. He takes a step back, giving her a little more room. "Do you need anything from me?"

The pain in her gaze intensifies, and she quickly breaks eye contact. "Just stay with me." Her voice shakes slightly.

He'll stay forever, if she lets him.

She clears her throat, shakes her head a little, and closes her eyes. "Here goes nothing."

The world explodes in fire.

Maeve doesn't swoon—he can't say she swoons. But she does collapse, dropping as if she's been struck by something.

The flames surrounding her don't matter to Sinbad. They barely register. The moment he smells burning flesh he darts forward, into the searing heat, grabbing at her unresponsive body. He yanks her free of the fire, the flames licking at his clothes, singeing his hands and legs. He doesn't care.

Only when her unconscious body presses firmly against his, and he's slapped out the sparks attacking his hair and clothing does he realize she remains unburnt—the smell is coming from the deer carcass, now burning like a bonfire. A patch of bare burnt ground surrounds it for fifty yards in all directions, black and smoking. Some of the younger, thinner trees are burning; all bear black scorch marks. Any underbrush in the path of the explosion is now completely gone. Sinbad pants lightly, ignoring the pain of his own burns, holding her unresponsive body to him tightly.

"Maeve!" He shakes her lightly, forcing panic down, making himself remain gentle. Fucking hell. This is far worse than what happened in the infirmary. Her magic ran out of control then, but at least it did something useful. This was a wild explosion of pure power, incredible in its intensity. Something's wrong—very wrong. She should have known this was a possibility.

He grips her tightly and shuffles them both a little further from the burning carcass. The stink of burnt meat is strong. He holds her close and pushes the tangles of her red curls out of her face, leaving a smear of soot.

She's bone-white, white as death, even her full lips devoid of color. She's fireproof but her clothes are not, and she's lost several inches of her white linen sleeves, the garment now scorched with mottled browns and pocked with burned holes. Her leathers are tougher and fared slightly better. He rubs her cheek with his thumb, willing himself not to panic. She's still warm despite the icy color of her skin, and he can still feel her inner fire when he touches her. It's cooler, like a hearth banked for the night, but it's still there. It hasn't gone out.

"Maeve." He swallows hard and tucks her against him, holding her tightly, ignoring the pain of his burns. This is far, far worse than he anticipated. After the mess in the infirmary she was tired and shaking, and badly needed food and rest. Now she's completely incapacitated. The nearest treehouse is at least a mile away; he can't carry her unconscious body that far.

But they can't stay here. He remembers all too well teasing her yesterday, asking what would happen if he fucked her out in the open, allowing her fire to burn wild. If that would bring every supernatural creature on the mountain down on them, he doesn't want to know what the explosion she just created will do.

The stink of the burning carcass grows stronger. He hugs her unconscious body close, guilt heavy in his gut. He asked her to do this. She warned him clearly that she had no idea what she was doing, but he let her do it anyway. Now she's passed out, they're utterly vulnerable, and it's all his fault.

The reek on the wind changes. Not just burning flesh and charring bone, now he smells something worse. Something his instincts remember before his mind does, sending him to his feet, clutching Maeve's unconscious body tight. The odor of decay, of decomposing flesh and moldering rot.

He runs.

The creature is behind him; he knows it without looking. He can smell it, can sense it, every animal instinct in him telling him it's there. He struggles to run with Maeve's body in his arms. She's not particularly heavy but her long limbs make things awkward, and unconscious she can't help him. If she could wrap those strong legs around him that would help immensely, but she can't. He sucks freezing air into his lungs, very aware that he's heading for the lake, just as Senna did before him. She probably knew the cold water would kill her, probably decided a watery death was better than dying in the hands of the creature hunting her.

Sinbad isn't sure what to think. He hates that fucking lake and swore he'd never enter it again, but the creature behind him is after Maeve and she can't protect herself right now. He has to do that for her. She's fire at her core—the lake won't kill her as long as he can keep her from drowning.

He crashes through the treeline onto the rocky lake shore, not giving himself a chance to second-guess his gut. Everything in him tells him to keep her safe, to do what he can to protect her. Without a second thought, he runs into the water and submerges.

The cold knocks the breath from him, slicing through him like knives. He jerks his head above the water to gasp, then forces himself below again. Very little of his rational mind is still functioning, but he retains enough sense to pinch Maeve's nose shut firmly. Her body struggles against him; the freezing immersion woke her, but whether she's lucid or not he can't say. He presses his mouth to hers and feeds her air, breathing into her lungs. After a moment she stills against him. Whether she understands anything about what's happening he doesn't know, but her arms slide around his shoulders and she doesn't attempt to breathe the water. He continues to press his mouth to hers for several moments, until he's sure her body understands. Then, slowly, he backs off enough to see her, and opens his eyes.

The day is dark. The water is darker. He can barely see her a few inches away, but her eyes are open. He releases his grip on her nose and wraps both arms around her instead.

The cold is just as intense as he remembers. His lungs fight to gasp against it, his already numb body wracked by pain as it feels like his blood freezes inside him. She's warm in his arms but submerged like this she won't be able to stave off the cold for long. He touches his mouth to hers, then cautiously surfaces, allowing just his eyes and nose out of the water, blinking icy drops from his vision, exhaling a silent breath and sucking in another as he looks for the creature. He keeps Maeve firmly below the water. She's not in danger from the cold right now, and he doesn't want the beast to see her.

It's humanoid in shape, gaunt and emaciated, green-gray skin stretched over bones. Just as he remembers from the fire-vision in the infirmary, its eye sockets are empty and staring. The face is little more than a skull, with a skull's leering grimace. Horns that look like dead branches sprout from its head.

It sees him. Those empty, haunted eye sockets fasten on him. Its feet shuffle closer to the water's edge and it takes a slow step, bone crunching through the crust of ice at the shoreline. It howls when it touches water and shuffles back.

Maeve squeezes his upper arm urgently. Without a word he turns, pressing his numb mouth to hers under the waterline. She exhales through her nose, air bubbling up, breaking the surface. He feeds her a full breath, breathing into her mouth even as his mind races. He's slowed by panic and now the cold, and he struggles to think clearly.

The creature freezes at the water's edge. It lifts its skull-like face as if scenting something. Its mouth opens and it screams, the screech ungodly, high and terrifying. Sinbad can hear its hunger, its absolute rage. It knows Maeve is there. Whether it smelled her breath or something else, it knows. It wants her desperately. It abandoned Senna when she dove into the lake, but it's not leaving this time. It wants her too badly.

Sinbad ducks under the water again. He can feel the cold as it steals his strength, his ability to move, to think. If Maeve were perfectly well she could possibly warm the water enough to keep him alive, but after that explosion she can't. Not without endangering herself and possibly passing out again, which means death underwater. He hugs her tightly and feeds her more air. He can't feel her against him anymore—not the gentle warmth of her body or the touch of her lips, not the pressure of her arms, though he knows she's holding him tightly. He can't feel any of it. How long can he stay alive here, submerged in the icy water? Five minutes? Eight?

It doesn't matter. The bottom line is that he can't survive in the lake, and Maeve won't survive out of it. The beast desires her desperately. Sinbad can't feel her anymore, but he can feel the creature's desire, its hunger. Its raw desperation is apparent in every line of its skeletal frame, in the dark shadows of its empty eyes. Maeve is fire, but she's also weakened, and as she's said before, fire and water are inimical. She's safe for the moment but she can't stay submerged in this icy lake forever. That creature wants her badly, and it's not going to just walk away.

Sinbad has to stop it.

This is his quest—the reason he was sent here. To stop this beast. To keep it from killing more people. Hundreds of lives, possibly thousands, rest in his hands. Sorcha and Odhran. His brother and crew.

Maeve.

She's the only thing in the world he cares about in this moment. He surfaces only enough to take another breath, feeding her the air she needs to stay submerged, out of the creature's sight. It paces the shoreline, desperate and impatient.

He makes his decision.

If he stays in the water any longer he'll be useless, unable to defend either of them. Their job is to stop this creature. If they both die, everyone else on the mountain and in the lowlands will as well. He has to fight, to kill the thing or lure it away, to keep it from Maeve. She's canny and strong. If he can keep her alive now, she'll be able to rest and restore her strength, then figure out how to kill this thing.

He touches his mouth to hers, kissing her hard, though he can't feel her lips. Forcing his aching, numb body to move, he pulls her arms firmly from his shoulders. They're submerged but his knees are bent, numb feet planted on the rocky lake bottom. Even though she can't swim, she should be okay without him. Not just his heart but his whole body wrenches at leaving her, but he has no other choice. He holds his hand up firmly between them when she frowns at him, stopping her, telling her unequivocally to stay where she is. She can survive this cold. He can't.

When she sees what he's doing, fury lights in her dark eyes. They flash with fire. Good. That anger will keep her warm, as long as she doesn't try to come with him. He steps away, straightens his knees, and breaks surface, exhaling old air, sucking in a new breath that cuts like knives.

The creature screams its hatred of him—he deprived it of its desire, and the beast is angry. Possibly angrier than the girl behind him, who surfaces and, yes, moves toward him. She's awkward in the water, out of her element, and despite his fumbling numbness he's far more agile than she.

"Sinbad! What the fuck do you think you're doing?"

"Distracting it." Dying, in all likelihood, but he's not going to tell her that. "I can't survive in the water. You can. _Stay there_."

"Like hell I will!" She takes another awkward step and unbalances, thoroughly lost when surrounded by water.

"Stay there!" He hopes that's his captain's voice, deep and resonant. He means for it to be, but all his senses are blunted by the cold. He can't honestly tell anymore. "Someone has to stop this thing. That's you. Do you hear me?" He prays she does.

The creature screams, darting into the water as Maeve flounders, but once again it backs away after a single wet step. It shudders with hunger, furious. Ravenous.

Sinbad draws his saber. His hand is clumsy and he can't feel the hilt. This fight won't last long if he doesn't concentrate. He has to lure the creature away, at least long enough for Maeve to get safely out of the water and run. He turns to give her a last look.

He expects anger. That temper of hers is volatile, and he's ordering her to do something wholly against her nature—to let him be killed or taken so she can escape. She has every right to be irate, but she isn't. At least, that's not what he sees. Instead, she looks...gutted. Water streams from her hair, her eyes huge and dark in her stark white face, mouth open slightly in shock.

"I love you, _leannán_." She never told him what it means, but his heart understands what his head does not. "Get safe. Then stop this thing."

He turns to fight.

The creature is more than ready. It wants Maeve, and while Sinbad doubts that it has a human level of intelligence, it understands that Sinbad is in its way. It attacks, slashing at him with wicked claws attached to its bony, grasping hands. Now that he's next to it he realizes it's bigger than he thought, a head taller than Doubar, and strong despite its skeletal frame. The sunken belly under its ribs unnerves him, skin sucked tight to the bones, but the creature's reek of death bothers him more. Sorcha said the smell was likely due to its diet, but looking at the thing he's not so sure. It doesn't really look alive.

But it's strong. One sweep of a bony arm knocks him flat on the rocks and he struggles to pick himself up again, twisting, forcing the creature's back to the water. He feints and jerks backward, one step, then another. The beast is angry enough that it follows, screeching its hatred of him. Three steps. Four.

No more. It realizes his game swiftly and shifts, angling the fight back toward the water. Maeve has submerged again save for her eyes; he can see the lump of her head against the dark surface of the lake, snow falling silently around them. He lunges again and manages to cut the beast. It howls and the stench worsens as thick green-black fluid oozes from its side.

Sinbad smiles grimly, but he feels very little satisfaction. He's too cold, and he can feel his frozen body giving up. He can't last much longer.

A sudden blast rocks the forest, like Maeve's explosion of fire but stronger, deeper. The creature flinches and curls into itself.

The blast is magic—Sinbad knows that much. And it didn't come from Maeve, who for once is listening to him. She doesn't have the energy to do something like that again.

The creature's response makes no sense to Sinbad, though in his depleted state not much does. It ceases to fight, stepping back from the lake, screaming its defiance even as it recoils. It still wants Maeve desperately, but something about this new magic has made it wary.

Sinbad takes a chance, darting in, saber drawn, aiming for where the monster's heart ought to be. But the rocky shore is slippery with snow and his reflexes are too slow from the cold. He stumbles and slips and the creature dodges him easily. He falls and it kicks him in the gut, wicked talons on its bony, raptor-like feet ripping into the leather of his borrowed jacket, then his flesh. He groans, but doesn't have the strength to cry out.

Just before unconsciousness claims him he feels his body shift, smells the reek of the creature as it lifts him, tossing him like a sack of grain over its bony shoulder. They move swiftly through the forest, away from the lake and whatever made that burst of magic—away from Maeve. He's never felt more relieved or more bereft in his life. He can rest now. Whatever the creature does with him, he accomplished his goal. He's without her, but she's safe. That's all that matters.


	8. Chapter 8

_A/N: A somewhat shorter chapter than usual, but I thought since many people are stuck at home shorter, more frequent posts might be welcome. _

**The Mountain**

Pairing: Maeve/Sinbad  
Rating: M  
Setting: Alternate  
All standard disclaimers apply

* * *

Thirty seconds after the creature disappears, carrying Sinbad's slumped body like a sack of grain, Maeve struggles out of the lake. She grunts and gasps a long, sputtering stream of curses as she forces her body through the water, awkward and slow, before finally reaching dry land. She _hates_ water, hates the feeling of being submerged, surrounded by an element so foreign to her. It's unnatural, hostile to her very being, and the freezing temperature only exacerbates her anger. She isn't cold—she's never cold—but her inner fire burns through energy faster when submerged in that icy water, and she just doesn't have any left to spare. She drops to her knees on the rocky shoreline, breathing deeply, her body shaking with fatigue.

She's so angry—so _fucking_ angry—but she's also exhausted and has no outlet for her fury. Motherfucking hell, she's mad. At herself, for being so weak. At Sinbad, for having the unmitigated gall to sacrifice himself like that. At the creature, for existing. The lake, for existing. The goddamn snow and the whole goddamn mountain, for existing. Her anger shudders through her, burning the little energy she has left. She steams like a hot spring in winter, like a boiling pot, so hot with fury that the snow turns to rain even before it hits her. Hot tears touch her face, and she scrubs them away with an impatient, angry hand. She's not crying. She's not. At least, not with sadness. She's crying because she has nowhere to put that anger, no way to diffuse it. And anyway, she's not crying.

Rough, pounding footsteps and panting breaths hit her ears, but Maeve doesn't give a fuck who it is or what they're doing on this mountain. They're not her problem. All she cares about right now is getting Sinbad back. He had no right to make that decision without her. Now she needs to rescue him, to take him back from that hideous creature so she can kill him herself.

"What the—" A startled male voice hits her ears. She glances up out of reflex; she doesn't really care who's there. Through the heavily falling snow two figures appear. One is a giant of a man, tall and muscular as well as just plain fat, wearing a bushy beard and a long plait of grizzled hair. The other is a more normal size. Both wear brown woolen cloaks with the hoods pushed back. They're human and strangers. The freezing temperature affects her sense of smell to a certain degree, but that much she could tell without looking.

Neither man appears to be an immediate threat, so she ignores them. Kneeling on the icy bank of the lake, she takes stock of her possessions. She needs to figure out a plan. She still has her knife, sheathed at the small of her back. The little gold key that can take her back to Odhran's clan. Feeling inside her shirt, she frowns as she comes across a wet lump. Drawing it out, she discovers the packet of herbs Sorcha gave her when she left with Sinbad. The paper wrapping has burnt to ash, the dried herbs now a charred, sodden handful of mush. Swearing once more, she flings the ruined cure to the rocks and wipes her hand on her wet trouser leg.

"Guess it's you and me now, kid," she mutters in her native tongue, struggling to her feet. She shoves her wet, steaming hair out of her face and plants her feet firmly, stilling for a moment as her head spins, threatening to unbalance her. "Your father's gone and got himself in a mess of trouble. We have to fix that. Then kill him." The way she feels, she's not inclined to be forgiving.

Or welcoming. She checks the movement of her knife in its sheath once more before stepping forward, away from the two men still gaping at her.

"Wait!" The normal-sized man starts forward, one hand reaching for her. The heavily-accented Turkish is clearly not his native tongue.

Maeve whirls, knife in hand, instantly on guard. Conjuring fire right now is not a good idea; she'd even turn off her inner flame to conserve energy if she could, but she can't. The best she can do is try to stifle her anger, and get to an _óstán_ as quickly as possible. The snow is falling so swiftly that following that creature's tracks is impossible, and Sinbad was right about one thing—she's dangerously exhausted. She needs to eat, to refuel her body and her fire. She's no good to him like this, as much as she hates to admit it.

"Whoa!" The giant draws a huge, elaborately-detailed saber. It's very big, very foreign, and to Maeve's mind, very ridiculous. "Watch it, Firouz, she's dangerous!"

"No shit, tubby!" Normally two such as these wouldn't alarm her, but at the moment she honestly doubts she can take them both. Bullying them into leaving her be is her best option. "Keep your distance."

"I'm sorry, miss." The smaller man hasn't drawn a weapon yet. He raises his hands in front of him, empty and open, showing he means no harm. "My name is Firouz. I'm a physician. Are you all right?"

"A what?" She frowns, and against her better judgment her defensive stance eases minutely.

"A physician." He blinks several times, searching for a better word. "A healer?"

"Oh." She drops her knife to her side but doesn't put it away. "I'm fine."

"You're, ah, steaming."

She shrugs. "I can't stop it."

Quick, intelligent eyes take in her dripping wet clothes. "Were you in the lake?" He sounds rightly horrified.

"Yes." She has no reason to lie to the stranger. What he's doing up here she doesn't know, but as long as he doesn't attack her it isn't her problem.

"Why in blazes would you do something that stupid?" the giant demands. He slowly sheathes his gaudy sword.

"A demon was chasing me. One who hates water even more than I do. Beware, boys. He's dangerous." She puts up her knife. It's only fair, since the other man did. She turns to leave.

"Wait!" Firouz stops her once more.

"What?" she snaps. She gestures at the silent forest around them, the heavily falling snow. "I don't have all day to stand around exchanging pleasantries."

"Sorry, but we're looking for our friend. He came up the mountain about a week ago, and we haven't seen him since."

Poor men. She pities them, she truly does. "Didn't you hear me? I said there was a demon prowling. I'm sorry, but your friend, whoever he is, is already dead." She's going to be, too, if she doesn't get to the nearest _óstán_ soon. She needs food and at least a wink of rest—her head isn't working right and she needs to be able to think. Brute force alone won't bring Sinbad back.

She leaves the men on the shore of the lake, trudging heavily into the trees. She knows which way the creature went, and she'll be back as soon as she can to search for more clues. Right now, no matter how much it galls her to admit it, Sinbad was right. She needs to rest. For an instant she considers using her emergency key, but no. If she goes back to Odhran's clan she'll have to explain why, and she's not ready to do that. Besides, it would take more time to give everyone the explanations they'll want, fight off Sorcha's ministrations, and hike back to the lake, than it will to just suck it up and walk the mile or so to the nearest _óstán_, despite her weariness.

The deer carcass is nothing but wet, charred bone when she passes it. If she had time and energy she'd bury the poor thing, but she has neither right now. The forest will have to do as it does, returning what's left of the creature to earth. Maeve walks as quickly as she can, pushing her tired body dangerously. Her head spins with each step and she wants badly to lie down, to just lie down and rest, but she's too angry and too stubborn to give in. A normal human would lose heat and die quickly, asleep in the snow. What might happen to her, she has no idea. She'd almost be willing to risk it, but right now Sinbad's life hangs in the balance, too. She's the only one who can rescue him, and she refuses to let him down. She's going to find that demon and kill it. Then, if Sinbad's alive, she's going to kill him, too. Nice and clean. Then she and her kid can start over. Maybe in Aven, at least for a time. Riona will insist on providing her the best midwife in the kingdom, though all Maeve really needs to feel secure is Sorcha's no-nonsense voice. Then maybe she'll go home for a while, back to Eire—though, in reality, she's not entirely sure where "home" is right now. The Fae who raised her were kind enough, but not kin. She has friends in Eire, friends at court in Aven, but if she's honest with herself, truly honest, no one has ever made her feel like Sinbad does. Grounded. At peace. It's...an odd sensation, and one she didn't realize she lacked until suddenly it was there.

Maeve stumbles, cursing bitterly as she skids down a steep, icy incline. Everything looks different in the snow, but she knows where she's going. Stupid sailor. Were he still with her, he'd probably be lost. He relies too much on his eyes, not enough on the rest of his senses.

But fuck, she misses him. Despite the anger. Despite her exhaustion. There's an odd ache in her chest that won't fade, and she doesn't think it has anything to do with how tired she is. Her heart hurts, and she hates it. Goddamned fucking idiot man. What right had he to appear so suddenly and mess up her life, anyway? She was doing just fine without him. She didn't ask for any of this.

Idly, she rubs her flat belly. "You better not give me any trouble. Hear me, kid? Your father was trouble, so I know it's in you, and I'm warning you." And gods, speaking about Sinbad in the past tense hurts like nothing else. He was never hers to begin with, was never going to stay. But losing him like this, it's not fucking _fair_. He never gave her a choice.

Climbing the rope ladder to the _óstán_ is almost more than she can handle. When she finally reaches the top she lets her body sprawl on the snow-covered platform, breathing deeply, not quite conscious, not quite unconscious. She stares as the snow melts around her, turned from ice to water by her inner fire. Food and shelter are so close, but dragging herself across the threshold and into the tiny hut is the hardest part of the whole trek. She fumbles the door closed with her feet, then lies in the darkness of the _óstán_ for a long time—how long, she isn't sure. Long enough for what's left of her linen shirt to dry, though her thicker leather clothing remains damp and uncomfortable. Long enough to acquire a painful backache from the wooden floor and awkward position. She's not sure if she's still in a foul mood or not—she's too tired to feel, and too tired to care.

Finally, as if in a trance, she forces herself to a seated position. She removes her wet, clammy clothes, and reaches for the thick woolen bedroll. Without thinking, she wraps it around herself.

The smell of the sea slaps her in the face.

Like a howl of mountain wind, it steals her breath. This is the _óstán _they used last night, which she spent wrapped tightly in Sinbad's arms, pressed against his hard, unyielding body. The woolen blanket smells strongly of him, and of sex, and she's shocked and disgusted with herself when she discovers wet streaks on her face. She's crying. Why the hell is she crying? Sinbad doesn't deserve her tears. No man does.

But she can't help it, and there's no one here to see. Ignoring the cold brazier, the bag of food hanging just out of reach, she wraps herself tightly in the scent of salt brine and lets herself cry.

* * *

"Try not to move, Sinbad."

He blinks. The last time he awoke confused in an unfamiliar place, it was to a beautiful, naked girl. Soft bed, warm blankets, yes, but mostly the girl.

Not this time.

"Where…"He coughs, then groans as his gut explodes with pain.

"Easy. Breathe. You've some nasty wounds."

He knows that voice. Now if he could only place it.

"They're not usually so rough." A new voice, one he's pretty sure he doesn't know. "He must have fought hard."

"This is Sinbad. Master of the seven seas, they call him. Aye, he fought. It's not in him to give up."

No, it isn't. He tries his eyes again.

"Tetsu." He swallows hard.

The ronin's face, usually so solemn, cracks a small smile. "My friend."

"My brother." Sinbad lifts his arm, shaking with the effort. Tetsu clasps his hand warmly. "I thought you were dead."

"So did I you, when the demon dropped you." He nods at a man next to him. "Rolly helped patch you up."

Sinbad squeezes his eyes shut, then blinks several times. When he opens them again, his vision has cleared a little. He offers his hand to the stranger. "My thanks."

The man inclines his head. As he does, his black hair shifts, revealing the graceful point of a fairy ear.

"You're Fae." Sinbad wants to sit up. His entire body aches, and now that he's awake he can tell he's lying on cold stone. He struggles to right himself, but the strong muscles in his abdomen don't want to work. Sharp pain knifes through his gut and he grunts, desisting.

"Don't move." Tetsu pushes his shoulder back against the floor. "Rolly had to stitch you shut. You need to rest now. Conserve your strength."

Sinbad runs his hand over his belly, trying to feel for the wounds he can't sit up to see. A thin blanket, greasy and stiff with dirt, covers him. Beneath it, he feels his vest, his ripped linen shirt. Where his red _hijam_ went he doesn't know. Several raised, swollen seams cross his abdomen, hot and painful to the touch. The rest of him is bitterly cold. Gods, he misses Maeve's fire. He thought he was cold out on the mountain with her, but then he always had the option to touch her, to warm his hands, his lips. He knew he was a lucky sonofabitch, but not just how much.

"Your friend here told me who you are." Rolly watches him with keen interest. "How does a sailor from Baghdad know what to call me?"

"My girl." Oh, he misses her. It feels like part of his own self has been torn loose, like when the creature ripped him open a piece of him was left behind. Swiftly his memories return—the shine of weak winter light on flame-colored curls, the taste of sweet woodsmoke and honey. Her soft mouth and laughing eyes.

The lake. Entering it to keep her safe. Leaving it to keep her alive.

Rolly and Tetsu exchange a glance he cannot read.

"You spoke of a girl while unconscious." The ronin's sober face turns back to him. "But you made little sense."

"Because she makes none." Sinbad really can't handle speaking to two men hovering over him while he's supine. "I had a jacket. Where's my jacket?"

"It's wet." Rolly holds it up. The lower front has been shredded, but the rest seems reasonably intact.

"Give it to me." Sinbad wads the damp, fur-lined leather into a pillow and Tetsu helps place it under his head. There. At least now he can look at them without straining his neck. "Where are we?"

"Someplace we don't want to be, my friend."

A clanging sound of metal on metal echoes through the place. Sinbad winces and immediately regrets it as pain knifes his gut once more.

"Stay." Rolly rises. "I'll be right back."

Sinbad watches blearily. He stares at his surroundings, trying to make sense of where he is, what's become of him. He's in a rough-hewn cavern of dark rock with Tetsu, Rolly, and a crowd of other men. No women that he can see, no children. Torches burn sullenly along the walls, but not many, their light ruddy and dim, fitful and angry. A barred window in a heavy wooden door clangs open, and he watches as the men crowd around it. He can't see what's happening.

"What happened to you, Tetsu?"

The ronin shrugs listlessly. He was trained from smallest childhood not to show outward emotion, but Sinbad has known the man for years and sees what others do not. Tetsu is frustrated, even angry. Not beyond hope—not yet. But he's close.

"I answered the call from the mayor of Ralgorōd, just as you did. When I arrived, he said you had not yet appeared. I climbed into the mountains to see what I could find, planning to return to the village in a day or two." He shakes his head. "The creature found me the first night."

Rolly returns with three steaming wooden bowls. Sinbad's eyes snap to that steam, the promise of heat. Whatever food is in there, he wants it. He can't tell if his injured body is hungry, but it craves that warmth.

To his relief, neither man insists on helping him eat. They understand male pride, and they let him tip his bowl awkwardly to his mouth, swallowing the thin, hot gruel. Tetsu continues as they pretend to ignore the mess he's making.

"I did not know at first that there were more creatures. Even now I cannot tell them apart. But there are many."

"How many?" Sinbad's stomach revolts against the food; he fights to keep it down. The barley was not properly dried and has gone rancid, but all the men around him swallow their portion anyway, so he does as well. The heat is welcome, if not the taste. It bleeds down his throat and into his belly, beginning to thaw the ice he thinks he's permanently become.

"Too many." Rolly sounds beyond weary.

"Why are we here?" He sets his empty bowl aside. This is the vital question. "Why aren't we dead? What do they want?"

"They are hungry." Tetsu's voice is better schooled than his companion's, but Sinbad hears the exhaustion in it, as well. He digs his fingers into the corners of his eyes.

"But…" That makes no sense. Sinbad struggles to remember why. A burning carcass—a dead deer ripped apart, but not eaten. "The one that caught me. A deer got in its way. It killed her, but didn't eat."

"You may quash an ant, a fly, but do you eat it?" Tetsu sets his empty bowl atop Sinbad's. "I do not know what these creatures are, but I know what they eat."

Yeah, Sinbad does, too, now. "Like a minotaur."

"Like a minotaur," Rolly agrees.

Lovely. Perfect. Sinbad closes his eyes. His gut hurts like hell, and the constant shivers that attack him aren't helping.

"But now we are together again, brother." Tetsu squeezes his shoulder. "That is the best way to solve any problem."

It absolutely is. And Sinbad can't forget the reason he let himself be taken—the woman who's still out there. "My girl won't let me down, either. If anyone can figure out where we are, Maeve can."

"Maeve?" Surprise lights Rolly's face. "The queen's firestarter?"

Is that what they call her? It absolutely fits. She kindles flames wherever she goes. "Aye."

"She's yours?" The Fae man sounds doubtful.

"She's mine." Sinbad has to believe it. He has to have something to believe right now, and Maeve's it. "And she's still out there. She'll find us."

"Rolly spoke of the girl—a woman of flame sent by her queen, he said." Tetsu watches him, unblinking. "Beautiful and deadly."

"She is that." And so much more.

"My wife befriended her when she first came east to help us." Rolly's inhuman Fae features draw tight with pain.

His wife? Sinbad takes a chance. "Senna?"

Bright black eyes snap to his. "You've seen her? You've been inside our clan?" He frowns. "How? I wouldn't think Odhran would allow a human past the perimeter. Especially not now."

Sinbad settles back as comfortably as he can. "It's kind of a long story." Thankfully, they have time. He's going to do his best to get free, to get everyone free, but he has to recuperate first. He can't fight if he can't even sit up. And he's going to need help. Maeve is out there, doing everything she can to find him, he's sure of it. He and Tetsu and Rolly will do their part in here. Surely, with everyone working together, they can figure this out. No matter how many demons are waiting.

* * *

A/N: Thanks so much for the review, WMM, (can't respond privately to guest reviews). I remember that name from back in the day! I went by Cris (CrystalKeeper) once upon a time.


	9. Chapter 9

_A/N: I have one more old story from the '90s that I'd planned on posting, but I ran into a couple of complications. I didn't realize that part of it is still up on my other profile - I thought I'd taken it down during one of my cleanups. I also didn't remember that I never finished posting it, and I'm not sure why, because it's been completed forever. I don't want to double-post it, so while I'm deciding what to do you can take a look at the first few chapters if you want. It's called Vital Stars under the author's name of Cris._

**The Mountain**

Pairing: Maeve/Sinbad  
Rating: M  
Setting: Alternate  
All standard disclaimers apply

* * *

The bitter cold of the cavern bites deep, and the pain from Sinbad's wounds lances through him. He doubts he'll be able to sleep, but his exhausted, abused body demands rest more than it protests its surroundings. He's unconscious soon after Tetsu stops speaking. How long he sleeps, he doesn't know. Time has little meaning in the perpetual murky torchlight underground. He half-wakes a handful of times to the steady pressure of Tetsu asleep on one side of him, Rolly on the other, more men pressed near, huddled together for warmth as the omnipresent cold of the cavern hovers around them. They have blankets, thin, dirty things that hold little heat, but otherwise remain in whatever clothes they wore when captured, no matter how mangled, how filthy. Rolly disappeared when summer still graced the mountain and suffers in linen as light as Sinbad's.

Even half awake, Sinbad aches for Maeve. For her inner fire, yes, that beautiful heat his body craves, but also just for her. Her ferocity, her bright, living spirit. No one in the world feels as alive as she does, and right now he's badly in need of that life—her brash confidence, her savage optimism. He needs her light in this darkness.

He swallows the hot, rancid gruel when presented with a bowl—the only sustenance the demons provide. Otherwise he shivers, and sleeps. He doesn't feel well at all, and suspects the gouges in his gut are trying to fester, his body fighting a fierce battle against wound-sickness. The bad food and constant cold can't be helping. He's never wanted Firouz so badly in his life—Firouz, or even Sorcha, the Fae healer. Either of them would know how to help him. Tetsu and Rolly cover him with their blankets when they rise, but with no medical supplies or even clean water, they can do little else.

Still Sinbad refuses to give in. During a rare wakeful moment he watches the crowd of men mill around the cavern. Most wear their blankets as shawls, tucked close around their bodies to help ward off the chill of cold stone. They amble aimlessly, or sit in small, huddled groups. Few speak. Along with their blankets, they wear an air of hopelessness. A sense of doom hovers thick in the air, dense and bitter. Tetsu and Rolly haven't given up, but they may be the only ones.

Sinbad does note that both Fae and human men occupy the cavern and, at least here, they're not self-segregating. It lends him hope. They're living with each other, co-existing. It may not be much, but it's something, and he refuses to dismiss it as inconsequential.

He also refuses to give up hope. His brother and his crew are still down in the lowlands, Maeve out on the mountain. People are counting on him, and he can't let them down.

So he fights.

He allows his body a day to rest, to battle the threatening wound-sickness. He swallows the rancid food brought to him, more for the heat than any real hunger, and sleeps. He dreams of the Nomad, his little ship waiting for him at the river below, and what it will feel like when he steps aboard once more. In his freezing prison, shivering with cold and possibly also with fever, his mind conjures the memory of sunshine, the baking heat of his world. He dreams of that warmth beating on his skin once more, bleeding into him, easing the frozen tension in his limbs, his aching gut. He sees his brother's laughing face, how Doubar will guffaw when he appears with a girl at his side. Doubar's often teased that Sinbad can find a damsel in distress in the middle of nowhere. He'll be even more shocked, and tease all the more, when he learns that this one is for keeps. Sinbad's marrying her the first chance he gets. The million obstacles standing between him and this imagined future don't matter right now. Not Maeve's queen, or her vow. Not their different backgrounds. None of it. He has to have something to fight for, and Maeve's it.

The second morning he awakens underground, Sinbad forces his body to sit.

"I'm not sure that's a good idea." Rolly's hesitant.

Tetsu kneels with hot bowls of gruel. He doesn't object; he understands. He's a warrior to the bone, with a fighting spirit as strong as Sinbad's. He gets it.

Sinbad shifts until he can rest his back against the cold cavern wall. The muscles in his gut scream at the abuse and he can't quite hold himself up on his own. Rolly hovers, wanting to help; Sinbad brushes him away. He needs to be able to do these things by himself.

"Tell me what you know." He swallows his food quickly, before it loses heat.

Tetsu looks at Rolly. "You've been here longer than I have."

Rolly swallows a mouthful, pulling a disgusted face but not retching it back up, as Sinbad has heard some unfortunate men do. "What do you want to know?"

"Everything." Sinbad sets his empty bowl down and rubs his face. He hasn't shaved since leaving his ship and he's not used to feeling so furry. He tries to tell himself it's extra insulation against the cold and ignores the annoying itch. "I don't know that we can fight our way out of this one with brute force. Not if there's as many demons as you say. We may have to use our heads." Gods, he really wishes he could talk to Firouz. He doesn't want his crew anywhere near these monsters, but Firouz always knows the right questions to ask. He's incredibly good at finding just the right detail to lay bare an enemy's weakness.

A rumble echoes through the cavern. Sinbad tenses. All eyes turn toward the big wooden door barring their exit. A key turns in the lock with a brittle screech.

The men in the cavern tense, but do not panic. Sinbad watches them, alert to their reactions. The door swings slowly open, and two demons appear. They're tall, taller than human men, and their horns?—antlers?—Sinbad doesn't know—scrape the door frame as they enter. One remains at the door, guarding the entrance as the other circles the cavern, motioning to most of the men, herding the chosen into a ragged line. Sinbad can smell the creature's deathly stink even before it draws near; he can't imagine how awful it must be for the Fae, with their better-trained, more sensitive senses.

The creature passes Sinbad, Rolly, and Tetsu by, and leaves a handful of other men as well. Most stump into line, unwilling but resigned prisoners, and are herded obediently out the door. It slams shut behind them, the lock shrieking as it engages once more.

Rolly exhales slowly. Sinbad does, too, surprised to find that he was holding his breath.

"They go to toil," Tetsu says softly. "Not slaughter."

Sinbad guessed as much. Even broken men won't trudge to certain death so easily. "Why'd they leave us?"

"You're injured. So are they." Rolly points to three other men left behind.

"Why should they care about that?"

Tetsu's face doesn't change. "Working an injured beast to death gets its owner nowhere."

Right. Sinbad scratches the maddening itch on his jaw again. "Rolly?"

Rolly runs his hand through his black hair. Like most Fae men Sinbad has seen, he wears it long. "They're digging—tunneling into the mountain. They bring the workers back after. Mostly we assume that marks a day. There's no other way to keep time."

Knowing how long Rolly has been here would be helpful, but Sinbad doesn't ask. He won't be able to answer. He knows he was taken in summer, and Sinbad told him yesterday that winter has begun. Better precision than that is impossible. Inside the mountain, day and night have no meaning. Some of the men have tried marking time, carving tallies for each day into the living rock. None are accurate, and they know this. They don't know how long they work or sleep, how much time passes between feedings. Without the sun and stars, the silver phases of the moon, they're lost.

"I know women have been taken, and children. Where are they?"

Rolly and Tetsu exchange a glance Sinbad can't read. He doesn't need to. Their silence says everything.

"__All __of them?" He's somewhat skeptical. He has no idea how many people have been taken, but something in him protests the thought that all the women and children have been eaten, the men spared to work the mountain. He doesn't want to believe it...and yet, it makes a macabre sort of sense. "No. Have you actually seen it? Seen them killed? Eaten?"

Rolly shakes his head slowly. "I haven't seen a woman since I was taken. There have been a few boys. They leave them be for a night or two, then take them away again. The boys don't come back." He tips his head toward Sinbad. "You do the math."

Okay, that part doesn't sound promising. But even still, something in Sinbad rebels against the thought that all the missing women and children are dead. "No, listen. It doesn't make practical sense." Sinbad is not Firouz and he's struggling here, struggling to understand what's going on. He's undernourished and starving, probably feverish, and his mind is foggy with cold and exhaustion. Still he persists. "These demons—they had to come from somewhere. This hasn't been going on forever."

"Aye," Rolly agrees. "Since the last snows melted, just about. Or that's when we noticed."

"So these creatures come here from somewhere." Sinbad scratches his head. He's filthy, and he swears he can feel bugs in his hair. Catching lice or fleas in this place would really piss him the hell off. Maeve's insistence on cleanliness seemed over the top at the time but he'd kill for a tub of clean, steaming water right now. And the girl to go with it. "They start capturing people. As food, yes, but also to dig into the mountain for them. Why?"

"Perhaps they're setting up a home, like a hive," Tetsu says. "Settling down?"

That is a horrifyingly unwelcome prospect. Rolly looks appalled. Sinbad doesn't feel much better, and he's not a local. He has a ship down at the river waiting for him. If he could get out of this gods-be-damned mountain, back to the light, the air, he could be free. He'll never, ever do it, though—he's unwilling to leave these people to their fates. Tetsu is counting on him. __Maeve __is counting on him.

"Except settling down doesn't feel like the right answer either," he says slowly, trying to think through this problem as Firouz would. "It's not sustainable, what they're doing. There aren't enough people in the area to keep a permanent settlement like this fed indefinitely. Tribes that don't farm, only hunt, have to move from place to place. They can't settle." Sinbad feels somewhat proud of himself. Firouz would probably have the whole puzzle solved already, but at least he's trying.

"Well, they're definitely not farming." Rolly laughs darkly. "They're penning their bulls away from the heifers. They'll never get any calves that way." He snickers.

Sinbad can't help it. Their situation isn't funny—it's so, so far from funny—but he laughs, too. Fuck, that hurts. The abused muscles in his gut spasm angrily and his wounds feel like they're on fire, but he can't stop himself. He and Rolly giggle like children while Tetsu stares at them.

"That is not funny."

"No, it's not," Sinbad agrees, and he tries to keep a straight face, but he can't. He snickers, his eyes watering as he struggles to hold back laughter.

"They should go to the lowlanders to get some tips on livestock husbandry," Rolly wheezes. He claps Sinbad's shoulder as he laughs.

They're attracting the attention of the few other men left behind, who stare at them as if they've gone mad. Maybe they have. Sinbad doesn't care. They're being used as livestock, worked like oxen, penned and eaten like cattle. But not bred like livestock. No, that's apparently a step too far for their captors. And yet, it's the necessary step that would make this whole mess sustainable. He and Rolly laugh in the darkness—for the sheer hopelessness of their situation, and the hopeless situation of their captors, too.

"Not funny," Tetsu repeats. He stares at them, disgusted. "But a valid point. A shepherd does not slaughter an animal he cannot afford to lose."

"So what are they doing here?" Rolly shoves his long hair out of his face and leans back against the cave wall, sobering once more. He rubs his face with his hands. "Hell. I miss my wife. My baby. She's not even really a baby anymore. Do you realize, if I ever see her again, she won't know me?" He closes his eyes and drops his head back against the rocky wall behind him. "I've been gone too long."

"Courage, man," Tetsu says softly. "At least, thanks to Sinbad, you know they're alive. They haven't been taken."

Rolly's nod is sharp. "I know. I'm trying to be grateful." He digs the heels of his hands into his eyes. "You don't have a kid. You don't know what it's like."

Sinbad is silent. His gut aches, and not just from his wounds. He tucked his shirt around Rolly's child at the edge of that fucking lake, dove after Senna and brought her to the surface. He saw them both, touched them, when Rolly aches to and can't. Tetsu's right—this isn't funny. Not when he sees the cost so stark in front of him.

Sinbad aches to be reunited with his own people—his brother, his crew. His Maeve. But his situation is wholly different from the Fae man's, and Rolly is right: he can't truly understand. He has no child of his own and has no earthly way to imagine how it feels to be separated from one. To be locked up like this, unable to even mark the passage of time, without knowing whether his wife and baby are safe. Sinbad misses Maeve so much that he aches, but the situation is wholly different. Maeve is the strongest woman he's ever met and he has faith that she'll find him. Once she recovers from that disastrous attempt to use her magic, nothing will stop her. She's probably furious right now, and an angry Maeve should fucking terrify these demons. She's strong and canny, and he trusts her. She can do this.

"We'll get out," Tetsu says, and he clasps Rolly's shoulder with a firm hand. "I swear it, friend."

Tetsu never makes a vow he can't keep.

"So these creatures are either not so good at long-term planning, or we're missing something here," Sinbad says, turning back to the problem at hand, giving Rolly a chance to compose himself. He may not understand fatherhood, but he understands male pride. The man doesn't need to be stared at while he tries to pull himself together.

Rolly clears his throat. "We're missing something. We have to be. They're digging. They're sparing the men to work. That all requires planning."

"They open the door to let workers in and out, probably on a regular schedule." Sinbad digs a hand into his hair and tugs. He'd give his sword hand for one of the Fae's magical keys right now, and would consider it a bargain. "Do they sleep?"

"Do they look like they sleep?" Rolly shudders. "I don't know if they can even blink."

"Well, we're going to find out." Sinbad lets out a swift breath, decided. "After they bring the workers back and feed us, that's when they'll most likely be sleeping."

"__If __they sleep," Tetsu interjects.

"So that's when we're going to pick the lock and have a look around."

* * *

"Goddamn motherfucking __hell__." Maeve drags herself into a seated position. Her head spins, but she does her best to ignore it. She rubs her eyes with dirty hands, then shoves the tangle of her bright red curls out of her face. Her entire body aches, and her groggy, slow mind tells her she slept hard, with no dreams. She was so exhausted she had no choice. She glances at the smoke hole in the roof, but it's too small to tell her much of anything. There's light, thin and wan. It could be dawn or twilight. Hell, it could be noon on a cloudy day for all she knows. She has no idea how long she slept. Forcing herself to move, she's not sure it matters. Her job right now is to find and free Sinbad, and she had no hope of doing so until her body recovered. She just hopes she slept enough.

Thoughts of Sinbad rekindle her fury. Stupid, beautiful, gods-be-damned man. No amount of sleep is enough to kill this anger. She's lonely, and admitting it galls her. She's never in her life been lonely like this—she likes the company of people, but she's never needed anyone before. Not like this. His absence is a tangible thing, a physical hurt she feels acutely, an injury she cannot treat. The only cure she knows is to find him, but even that won't stop the pain. He doesn't belong in her world, nor she in his. He isn't hers, so finding him, saving him, solves nothing.

Still, she's going to do it. Riona tasked her with solving the disappearances on the mountain, which she's pretty sure she and Sinbad did. The thing that took him has to be what's taken the others. It would have killed him outright, would have waited at the edge of the lake until she was forced out of the water, if not for that burst of magic. That part confuses her most. She forces herself to her feet and lifts the bag of food from its hook on the ceiling. Digging inside, she finds an apple and immediately bites down, too hungry and impatient to cook. She doesn't know where that magic came from or why the creature retreated, and it seems important. It was human magic; she felt that much, even as depleted as she was. Very human, very powerful, and very foreign. Whoever made it, she wishes she had them as an ally right now.

She finishes her apple swiftly and reaches for another as she rises, putting the bag back where it belongs. The brazier sits as clean and cold as it was when she got here—she doesn't need charcoal to keep warm. Her inner fire works just fine. She rolls up the woolen bedroll and puts it back in the corner, her body aching with each movement. She ignores it. She's been tired before, hurt before. She's never been heartsick before, but it doesn't matter. She's going to have to get used to it.

As Maeve steps out onto the platform holding the __óstán __she considers her next move. Snow blankets the mountain and her breath steams like a cloud when she exhales. It's fine. Cold doesn't bother her. She'll retrace her steps to the lake, and try to pick up the creature's trail. Snow means tracks, but what shape those tracks will be in she doesn't know. It's fine. She's Fae-trained, and this time she doesn't have a human man with her to worry about. She'll do better without him, she tells herself.

The jagged ache in her chest doesn't believe it.

She slips down the rope ladder and steps out into the frozen world. Her job is to stop this creature. Not because it took Sinbad, strictly speaking, but because Riona is counting on her. Odhran and Lachlan, Sorcha and Senna and her baby, and so many others. They're all counting on her. She can't let them down.

She heads for the lake, much swifter than the last time she tread this mountain. Then she was half dead, dragging herself step by grueling step to the safety of the __óstán __after Sinbad's capture. Now she feels somewhat better, though the sky hovers low overhead, dark and still, threatening more snow at any moment. Briefly she wonders if she should have brought the bag of food from the __óstán __with her. It's against the rules, but the treehouses are stocked for the convenience of scouts patrolling their territory and no one's patrolling now. Not only Odhran but all the clan chiefs in the area have closed their gates, corralling all but their most fearless hunters inside. No one has disappeared from inside the walled clans that she knows of—not yet. It's her job to make sure that never happens.

As her muscles warm and loosen, easing into the swift trek, Maeve's pain lessens. She wades through shin-deep snow, pushing toward the lake, still unsure how long she slept. Long enough that, as she tosses the core of her second apple into the underbrush, she feels better. Far better than before. The knifing pain in her chest remains, though, a hollow ache that won't be filled, won't be silenced. It threatens to crush her, but she shoves it ruthlessly aside. Missing Sinbad does nothing to help her, and she can't waste energy on it. He's not hers.

But he's not that creature's, either. It took Sinbad, but it's not keeping him. She refuses to let that happen. Nobody gets the pleasure of killing him except her. He barged into her life uninvited, charging into the middle of a fight she already had handled. She let herself be seduced by his pretty eyes and cocky grin, his strong arms and the way he smelled like the sea. She knew it was a bad idea, knew not to get attached, but she did it anyway and now she's paying the price. He left, as she knew he would—albeit not quite the way she expected. He left her in that freezing water, demanded she stay put without giving her any say, any choice. So yeah, she's pissed off. At him. At herself. But mostly at him.

Her steps halt abruptly as her nose scents old smoke. She's reached the burned-out clearing she made yesterday, the unintentional explosion that leveled a good chunk of forest and killed her ability to protect herself from that creature. She looks at the scorched trunks, black skeletons of trees, the snow beneath them inked with soot. There are no saplings, no underbrush. Icy wind touches her cheek. The silence is deafening.

She breathes the smell of soot, of burning, layered with snow and silence. Her feet are wet even inside her sturdy leather boots. Slowly she turns in a circle, observing the devastation. It takes her aback. No, more than that. She's appalled by what she's done.

Maeve breathes softly, the sound of her heartbeat, her breaths, the only things she can hear. She remembers Sinbad asking her to try to track the creature using magic. She's never done anything like that before, and she remembers trying to warn him. Her magic is unpredictable, and doesn't always obey. She's confident doing things like lighting fires and defending herself; that comes naturally. But forcing her power to take other forms, to do things not of its nature, is more difficult. And more dangerous.

She warned him. She remembers specifically warning him. But, no matter how angry she is at him, this explosion wasn't his fault and she doesn't blame him. This was all her. She swallows hard. The utter destruction saddens her, frightens her...and leaves her a little in awe of what she accidentally accomplished, too. The raw power that left her was unlike anything she's felt before, and the result, while disastrous, is also monumental. She doesn't even really remember doing it, but she remembers the feeling as the power left her. It was like she somehow took her soul in her hands, held it in her cupped grasp, the power of it, the fire, the light. For a moment, just a moment, she thought Sinbad's plan was going to work. She thought she had control.

Then something went very, very wrong.

She can't say what, or why. But the power was torn from her hands, unleashed with raw fury on the innocent forest. She remembers feeling empty, like everything inside her had been ripped away, like a pillow turned inside out and stitched back together without the stuffing. Then nothing else until the cold shock of the lake roused her, Sinbad's hands hard on her mouth and nose, holding her air in, refusing to let her breathe water.

Stupid man. Stupid, beautiful, hard-headed, unwavering man. The tightness in her chest expands into her throat, creeping upward, threatening to turn to tears. She clamps her jaw down hard and refuses. She cried over him already. She will not do so again.

How he escaped the explosion unscathed, she has no idea. She shakes herself and begins walking again, heading resolutely for the lake. She's beginning to hate that lake as much as he does. Maeve isn't surprised that she wasn't burned; she's never in her life burned herself, though she's certainly ruined more than her fair share of clothing with unintended flames. Even now her leathers are three shades darker than they were before, scorch-marked and melted in places, and her linen shirt is pocked with holes, most of her sleeves burnt to ash. She can't remember if Sinbad looked the same before he was taken; her mind was too muddled for particulars. She doesn't even really recall what the creature looked like specifically. Tall and gaunt, yes. Dark and dangerous. It had to be strong if Sinbad couldn't best it. Other than that, it's all a blur.

She reaches the lake and skirts its edge, heading for the spot where Sinbad was taken. Too much snow has fallen betweentimes, as she feared, and there are no visible tracks to follow. But she was raised by the Fae, trained by their scouts and warriors, and she refuses to let that be the only answer she can glean from this place. She closes her eyes and stills her body, breathing in, letting the air rest on her tongue, in her nose. Cold temperatures deaden smells but she persists, moving forward, down a shallow slope, then up a steeper one, pushing east, wading through the shin-deep snow. Faintly, ever so faintly, she thinks she can smell or taste the lingering sick-sweet reek of the creature. She's headed in the right direction, the way the creature left when it carried Sinbad away from the lake, and she lets this thought buoy her as she walks slowly but firmly further out onto the mountain.

Hours pass. Winds kicks up, confusing her senses. She curses, stilling as she fights to find again the scent-trail she needs so badly, the one she prays to all the gods she wasn't just imagining. Cold wind whips her hair around her face; she ignores it. Sometimes she'd really like to just chop it all off, crop her hair as short as a man's, but everyone she mentions it to reacts with horror. She pulls the fat curls back into a tight braid, securing the end with a torn bit of lacing from her vest. The trees creak and groan in the wind and night is coming on fast. She ignores the gathering darkness. She doesn't know how long she slept, and Sinbad needs her. Too many people are counting on her, and she can't let them down.

She presses on, but slower now, second guessing each step, fighting to keep the trail as the wind blows first from one direction, then another, scrambling the faint scent trails made fainter by snow.

Cold doesn't bother Maeve; it never has. But breaking a path through fresh snow is difficult, and it eats up her meager energy stores quickly. She's tired, ravenous, and as full night closes over the mountain she's forced to admit that she's lost the trail. She draws her knife and marks the trees around her, peeling away thick vertical streaks of bark, exposing the pale wood underneath. She's bitterly disappointed, but a lost scent is a lost scent. She's not a wolf or a bear, not a creature who lives by her nose. If she wants to find Sinbad, she needs to use her brain. The best thing to do is clearly mark where she lost the trail, find the nearest __óstán__, and try again when the wind dies down.

To this end she turns south and skids down a steep slope, at the bottom of which she tumbles into a deep snowdrift. By the time she wallows and drags herself free she's soaking wet to her eyebrows and thus steaming again. A normal human would be dangerously cold as night sinks the temperature far below freezing. She's not, but she hates being wet. Add that to being hungry and tired and she's not in a good mood as she shakes the melted snow from her boots, squelching unpleasantly. She hates the feel of wet leather on her skin. And she's not looking forward to spending another night in an __óstán __alone. She's not looking forward to spending the night alone at all, regardless of where. It never bothered her before Sinbad. Now it does, and missing him, his hard arms, his gentle hands, only makes her furious again. She had him for such a short time, and she knew he wasn't hers to keep. So why is she doing this to herself?

Because she can't help it, no matter how much she tries to tell herself otherwise. She can argue all she likes, but her body knows what it knows. Her heart wants what it wants. Fighting that is impossible.

But as she turns again for the nearest __óstán__, a scent hits her full in the face. It's strong and unpleasant—not the decaying reek of the creature she seeks, but something animal and alive. Wet dog, but deeper, ranker. Dirty fur and old blood.

Werewolf.

A small, bitter smile touches her lips and she changes direction, letting the wind lead her feet. She may not be able to fight this pull Sinbad has over her, but she can damn well fight a wolf pack.


	10. Chapter 10

_A/N: Slight gore warning on this chapter, maybe?_

**The Mountain**

Pairing: Maeve/Sinbad  
Rating: M (language, sex, violence)  
Setting: Alternate  
All standard disclaimers apply

* * *

As the wooden door eases open, Sinbad's heart stops beating. It feels like he's going to die for an impossibly long, agonizing moment, then two, as he and Tetsu push slowly on the heavy wooden door barring the cavern where they've been penned. Rolly pours cold, watery gruel saved from their last meal over the hinges, since they have no grease. Remarkably, it works. Not completely, but enough. The door groans softly as it opens, but Sinbad and Tetsu push slowly, so slowly that the sound drops to the lowest end of the human register, lost somewhere between noise and vibration.

"You'll get caught," a man warns, opening one weary eye to watch them.

"I'd rather die attempting freedom than penned like sheep," Rolly hisses back.

The man shrugs. "I hope they let you die before they crack your bones for marrow." He closes his eye again and rolls over, giving them his back.

Sinbad ignores him. He squeezes Rolly's shoulder and jerks his head toward the black opening, just big enough for a man to slip through.

"You're hurt. Let me go first," Tetsu whispers. He's the smallest, though Rolly may currently be skinnier. Their captors aren't exactly starving them, but thin barley gruel twice a day doesn't go very far against the slave labor they're forced to do.

Tetsu eases his head through the black opening, pausing to look at the tunnel beyond. For a sickening moment, Sinbad's afraid something might shoot out of the dark and grab him. Nothing does, and there are no sounds from the tunnel beyond their prison cell.

"Guards?" Rolly asks finally.

"None," Tetsu breathes. "But no light, either."

"Ought we bring a torch?" Rolly hesitates.

"No." Sinbad is firm. "We can't risk it being seen. We're not breaking for the exit—not yet. Not with all these men still trapped. We've got to find a way to free everyone, and right now that means stealth."

Rolly glances behind him at the piles of men huddled on the freezing stone floor. "They wouldn't do the same for you."

"They are broken," Tetsu says softly, pulling his head back through the doorway. "That is not their fault. You can't judge the worth of a man's soul by what he does under torture."

His comrades don't argue.

Sinbad hurts like hell. He aches from the top of his skull to the soles of his feet, and the wounds in his gut burn like a hot knife permanently embedded in his abdomen. The stitches Rolly put in him pull as he moves, but he refuses to just lie still and accept his fate. If he does he'll die, either from wound-sickness or toil, and that's unacceptable. He refuses to give up meekly, lying on his back, penned down here like an animal. He and Rolly laughed about it before, laughed because they were too desperate to cry, but they're not livestock. They're men. He refuses to be treated as anything less. If these demons want to kill him they're going to have to do it honorably, man to man. Not master to beast.

The tunnel beyond their cell is nearly black, lit only by what dim light bleeds through the cracked doorway. It's uncomfortably narrow, though high—made for the tall, skeletal beings holding them captive. He can smell their lingering stink, the sick-sweet reek of death and decay sunk deep into the rock of the mountain. He holds his breath and listens. A stifled cough sounds from the men sleeping in their cell. Tetsu's stomach rumbles. His own heart throbs too loudly in his ears. He can hear nothing else.

"Which way?" Tetsu breathes the question into the stale, freezing air inside the mountain.

"Rolly, your senses are keener. What do you say?"

The Fae man looks down both black tunnels. Sinbad can just make out his silhouette in the darkness. "All I can smell is the stink of these monsters. I see nothing, hear nothing. I don't think it matters which way we try."

Sinbad untucks the ends of his red _hijam_ and presses one into the hands of each companion. "Hold tight so we don't get separated." He takes another breath of stale air and turns to the left. He feels each step with his booted feet, inching his way forward, his friends at his side and back. Fumbling along the uneven, rocky floor of the tunnel in solid darkness reminds him of Maeve, her admonishment the morning after he met her. As he struggled in the snow, she covered his eyes with thin linen and told him to stop watching his feet, to trust his other senses. Now, utterly blind, he has no choice but to put his faith in her advice. He relies on his sense of balance, his ears as he hears the soft sound of their footsteps bounce back to them from the rock. He steps with caution, one hand always on the rough rock wall, but finds his unknown path easier than he feared it would be. He wishes he could see, could analyze his surroundings, but walking without sight is manageable.

"Is someone counting paces?" he asks softly—far later than he should have.

"I am," Tetsu breathes back into the darkness. "If there are forks, someone else will have to keep track of turnings."

At least one of them is prepared. Sinbad shakes his head to try to clear it, which only upsets his balance and leaves him with a dull headache. His wounds are serious, he knows, and he probably shouldn't be upright, straining the muscles in his abdomen. But he has no choice if he wants to live. Maeve is on the mountain still and he has every faith in her, but he can't just lie back and wait to be rescued. He needs to do his part in here. He touches his icy fingers to his forehead, which is warm and damp, but whether with fever he doesn't know. He's fucking freezing, either way, and he hates it. Once he gets out of here, he's never taking a job on a mountain or so far north ever again.

Well, not without Maeve beside him. Her warmth makes everything better. As the pressing dark and freezing cold of the mountain squeeze down on him, he aches for her presence. Her light. Her fire. Longing pierces him, as sharp as the talons that gutted him. He's beyond grateful for Tetsu and Rolly, but he needs her. She's fierce heat and soft smoky sweetness, fiery spirit and keen cunning. No one burns as brightly and he needs that fire so desperately, trapped in the endless dark cold inside the mountain. He can feel the weight of all that rock, tons and tons of it, pressing down on him. He's a creature of the sea, of wind and water—he doesn't belong underground. He desperately sucks down air, feeling like he's suffocating though his lungs still expand, his heart still beats.

Beside him, Rolly stills. "Breathe," he says softly. A cold hand touches his shoulder.

"With me." Tetsu is behind him, and puts his head close to Sinbad's. He inhales deeply, slowly. So slowly Sinbad's lungs cannot follow and he pants out a quick, lost breath.

"It's fine. Find my rhythm. Slow your heart." Tetsu exhales, so slow and so deep it sets Sinbad's teeth on edge. He can't manage even half as long.

"It's all in your head." Rolly's disembodied voice floats from the darkness, only his cold hand squeezing Sinbad's shoulder grounding him. "It happens to everyone underground, even lifelong miners. There's plenty of air. I promise, it will pass in a moment."

He knows there's air; he _knows_ it. Can feel it around him, colder than his skin. But his lungs don't believe it. He sucks in another breath, struggling to match Tetsu's calm, unhurried rhythm.

"Try thinking of something else. Your ship. Your brother. Your girl. Breathe and remember sunlight."

He remembers sunlight. He does.

"Breathe." Tetsu inhales.

Sinbad struggles to follow, to force his lungs to obey. Samurai incorporate breathing practice into each day, Tetsu has told him, which settles the spirit and disciplines the mind. Sinbad never thought much of the practice until now. He envies the long, deep breaths Tetsu takes as he tries to mimic them. The air smells dead—damp, chill rock and the faint lingering reek of decay. His legs quiver and threaten to give out, his whole body shaking violently. He turns, pressing his back hard against the unforgiving wall of rock. Closing his eyes changes nothing but he does it anyway.

"Breathe."

He doesn't belong here, stuck under the pressure of so much rock bearing down. It's too dark, too cold. Too dead. He needs light. Warmth. _Life_.

"Breathe."

Abruptly a vision comes to him—a memory. Running in the night-dark forest, torn loose from Maeve's grip on his hand. He'd searched the blackness for her, panic rising in him as it fills him now, afraid to call her name, to bring the creature down on them. And in that moment, as he feared for her safety, feared the creature behind them, a light bloomed—a tiny flame held cupped in her hand. A beacon, guiding him back to her through the darkness.

He clings to the memory of that light now, the overwhelming beauty of that little flame, and what she said to him when he found her. She promised not to leave him—that she never would. He squeezes his eyes shut, listening to Tetsu's soft breaths, feeling Rolly's firm hand on his shoulder, and wills himself, with everything he has, to believe it. She won't leave him. Not ever. He'll find a way to free everyone, to defeat these creatures, and then they can build a new life together. Both of them. He's certain she'll love sailing, and if she doesn't, they can try something else. He'll do anything, go anywhere, for her. He holds tight to the memory of that tiny flame cupped in her hand, just the barest hint of her magic, what she's capable of. It's his light in the darkness, beckoning him home.

His breaths slow. Deepen. His shaking legs don't fail. He braces against the wall of the tunnel and breathes, holding the memory of her light in his head.

"There." Rolly squeezes his shoulder and releases him. "I told you, it happens to us all."

"Though you have terrible timing," Tetsu adds.

"At least he didn't scream," Rolly whispers. "Can you walk?"

Can he? Sinbad honestly isn't sure, but he shoves away from the wall anyway. He's exhausted and shaking worse than Maeve after she overuses her magic, but he pushes on.

"At least underground there's no snow," Tetsu says. The attempt to look on the bright side falls flat. Sinbad will happily live in year-round snow if it means never going underground again.

They walk in silence for a time. Sinbad hopes Tetsu is still counting paces; he's too tired to ask.

Suddenly Rolly tenses, his body snapping rigid beside Sinbad's. "_Oh_." He jerks, his arm painfully jabbing Sinbad's gut.

"What?" Sinbad's body automatically lowers toward a fighting stance. There's nowhere to hide if they meet a demon in the tunnel. They can try to fight or try to run, neither of which will be effective in the darkness.

The Fae man's whisper hovers between hope and horror. "I smell women." He grunts softly. "And blood."

Sinbad's body goes rigid, too. His injured gut burns and screams at him. He does his best to ignore it. "Are you sure?"

"Very." Rolly inhales deeply.

"Fae or human?"

"Both."

Sinbad's gut twists and his heart races again. Before there was no need, his mind tripping his body to panic because of the dark, the deep. Now his body tenses, aching to fight, to be useful once more. Blood means trouble. His wounded belly muscles spasm as they try to harden, responding to the rush of adrenaline through his system. "Which way? Take us to them."

They start forward, faster than before, making more noise and not caring. After a handful of tense minutes they find a fork in the tunnel; Rolly leads them confidently to the left. Sinbad files away the turn in his memory, a little surprised that they haven't discovered any others. They round a gentle curve and suddenly his palm, pressed to the wall, touches rough wood, not cold stone.

"Stop!" he hisses, and runs blind fingers along the coarse, splintery surface. He touches a metal hinge. "A door."

Tetsu pushes close, his hands also on the wooden planks. "The lock is here. Rolly?"

The Fae man exhales shakily. "They're here. Women and blood. Old blood. New blood. Too much blood." He sounds as if he might be sick.

"Sit, if you have to." Sinbad fumbles for the man's shoulder in the dark and squeezes it. "Tetsu, the lock?" He's an honest sailor, not a pirate, and never learned how to pick locks. He regrets that now, and he's absolutely going to learn as soon as he's able.

Rolly stumbles into the wall, leaning against it. The soft sound of fingers on wood, then metal, tells Sinbad Tetsu is examining the lock. Rolly grunts softly, and Sinbad hears the gentle chink of metal against cloth.

"Something touched my shoulder." Rolly fumbles in the darkness.

Sinbad and Tetsu freeze. It can't be a demon—their smell precedes them wherever they go—but Sinbad doesn't really want to know what else might lurk in the deep of the mountain.

"Oh." Rolly's voice sounds much calmer. Metal clinks against metal, and Sinbad feels the man place something in his hand. "A key. It was hanging on the wall."

Sinbad's hand closes around the thin bar of ice-cold metal. He hands it swiftly to Tetsu, who fumbles it into the lock. He holds his breath as Tetsu turns the key as carefully as he can. It still makes a hellish noise as rusty tumblers protest, but they have nothing to lubricate the lock and they need to get in there. There's no way to tell how much blood Rolly smells, but it's enough to make him queasy. Something bad is happening beyond that door and they need to help if they can.

Tetsu lifts the latch, and together they ease the door open. Sinbad's eyes water and snap shut of their own volition at the sudden appearance of light. Behind the door lies a cavern much like the cell they just escaped, ringed with a few sullen torches. Sinbad steps inside, feeling Rolly and Tetsu release their hold on his _hijam_, forcing his eyes open again in the dim light.

A shudder of pure terror ripples through the huddle of bodies in the cavern. Most of them scatter, breaking for the walls, though there are no corners to hide in. They do their best, hugging the walls, converging in small clumps of two to five, cowering from the sound of the opening door. Sinbad's mouth drops open slightly. The men penned with him don't do this. They're broken, resigned to their fate. These women are just plain terrified.

A few women don't move. One lies supine, her chest heaving as she pants, her belly grossly distended—bigger, Sinbad thinks, than he's ever seen a pregnant belly before. Three women kneel with her, hovering protectively.

"Get out!" one snarls at the newcomers. "You can't have her yet!"

"Sorry?" Sinbad steps forward slowly, out of the shadow of the doorway and into the dim light of the cavern. Tetsu stands beside him, Rolly just behind. "I'm sorry. We didn't mean to scare you." He raises his hands slowly, showing that he holds no weapons. Tetsu does the same.

Some dark heads lift cautiously. Others do not. A ripple of soft murmurs bleeds through the cavern. The woman lying on the floor groans. One of her companions strokes her hair and forehead, wiping her brow with a filthy bit of rag. She's naked, her thin body awash in sweat as she struggles. Sinbad has never witnessed a woman in labor before, but the mood in the room, the attitude of the other women, feels off. There's no waiting hush, no sense of joyful expectation. Something is very wrong.

"Men?" The speaker rises from her crouch, staring at them warily. She's Fae, Sinbad knows instantly as soon as the light falls on her face. Her ears are hidden by long, matted black hair but she has a luminous, inhuman beauty even this terrible place can't obscure. "What business have you here?"

The woman on the floor cries out suddenly, her voice sharp and distraught. She writhes with pain, but even in the dim torchlight Sinbad can see that she's exhausted, her movements leaden. Rolly exhales a swift breath. Even Sinbad can smell the blood now.

"We were captured, too," Tetsu says, his eyes firmly on the speaker and not the struggling woman on the floor. "Held prisoner, set to work digging the mountain. We broke out tonight, and found you."

Another ripple of mutters flows through the women.

"Please." Rolly steps further into the light. "What's going on?"

The speaker's face contorts in a grimace, and a bark of hopeless laughter escapes her lips. "Isn't it obvious?"

Sinbad watches her cautiously. Something is going on here, something more than a woman giving birth. He looks at the Fae woman's hard, mistrustful face, then at the girl on the floor as she cries out again, her voice hoarse, body utterly spent. One of the women with her leans down, holding the sweaty head to hers, cradling her face gently.

Under the laboring woman's tightly-stretched skin, something moves. Sinbad's never seen that happen to anyone before, pregnant or otherwise. He stares, first in fascination, then with growing horror as something inside her pushes against her skin, pressing, testing the limits of her tightly-stretched belly. She barks one last, animal yelp of pain, of protest, before her body gives way under the pressure. Her skin splits, and the bloody prong of a bony horn rips through her gut.

"That's not a baby." The words sound so stupid once out in the air. He wishes to all the gods he could take them back. He stares at the woman's distended belly, a horn ripped through her, the wound dripping blood and foul-smelling liquid. She's still breathing, chest still rising and falling, which may be the worst part.

"Wonderful observation, genius." The standing woman's lip curls with scorn. "Close that door and hide. They'll smell her and be here in a moment."

Rolly slams the heavy door shut, but there's nowhere to hide. His nose lifts, as do the heads of the Fae women in the room.

"They're coming."

"No!" one of the women on the ground pleads, clinging to the laboring woman.

Her companions pull her away. "You can't help her now," the speaker snaps. "A quick death is best." She drags her away with brutal strength.

The little clumps of women converge again into a larger mass, huddling together at the far wall. Sinbad can smell their captors now, the sick-sweet reek of death, decayed and rotting flesh.

"Hurry!" the woman orders, beckoning to them. "When I said hide, I meant hide!"

They obey, entering the cowering huddle, which opens to receive them, taking them in and obscuring them in the crowd.

"With any luck they'll be too distracted to notice your scent," the woman mutters. "I don't think they see very well."

"What about her?" Rolly protests, gesturing at the woman left alone on the ground. She's still breathing, but mercifully no longer conscious, her body slumped and still. "She's still alive!"

"Not for long, which is best." The woman's voice is tight and angry. "A swift death is better than lingering, and there's no recovering from what those beasts put in her."

The door opens.

Sinbad has never seen more than two of their demon captors at a time. Now a swarm enters. His heart hammers hard against his ribs as he watches. One steps forward. The crowd of demons shifts restlessly, agitated and impatient. The single one kneels next to the unconscious woman. It inserts a talon into her punctured belly and, with the efficient precision of a butcher, slices her open. Her body convulses once, then lies still.

The huddle of women press closer together, warm bodies dressed identically in rough grey smocks on every side of Sinbad, pressing hard against him, a crowd of angry, helpless despair. The woman held by the speaker weeps softly.

The demon pulls something wet and wiggling from the dead woman's slit belly. In the dark Sinbad can't quite see it properly, but it looks neither human nor really like the skeletal demons, either. Its small, branch-like antlers drip with blood. The demon takes it away.

The moment it leaves, the rest of the creatures fall on the woman's lifeless body.

Sinbad has never seen a feeding frenzy before and instantly never wants to again. Arms reach for him and he willingly puts his around strangers as the press of human and Fae bodies grows ever tighter, folding in on itself, turning away from the carnage. A shudder of animal sorrow bleeds through them as they hold tight to each other. He feels Rolly at his shoulder, knows Tetsu is nearby. The rusty, wet smell of blood is strong, but the reek of these creatures is stronger.

His mind whirls as he tries not to listen to the sounds of tearing muscle, snapping bone. He and Rolly laughed earlier, mocking their captors for not attempting to breed their slaves. At the time, it seemed like a stupid mistake on the demons' part. Now he understands, and he wishes he didn't. They're eating the women, yes, as Rolly and Tetsu told him. But this is far, far worse.

"We have to make a break for it tonight," Rolly says softly, eyes burning, wincing as they hear a femur crack.

"You do and you die," the Fae woman hisses. "Have you any weapons? A map of the caverns? A way out?" She shakes her head. "Think, man!"

"This can't continue!"

"Three weakened men and a group of girls scared out of their wits will not stop it!"

Rolly closes his eyes tightly. Sinbad wants to, as well, but he forces himself to watch. He tries to count the demons, but they don't stand still. They fight each other for places around the corpse, ravenous and desperate, forcing down mouthfuls of gore, chins and claws streaked red. He thinks there are maybe thirty altogether, and the woman is right. Against that many, they don't stand a chance.

Slowly, one by one, the creatures leave, as they either eat their fill or give up. Some suck bones as they slink away, desperate for the last drops of marrow. When the door clanks shut behind them, all that's left is a bloody splotch on the floor and a few wisps of long black hair.

The woman who struggled to stay with the dying girl drops to her knees by the wet redness. "I won't forgive you for pulling me away!" she snarls.

The Fae woman doesn't attempt to touch her again. "Would you have preferred to die with her?"

"Maybe." Her head drops forward. "She was my littermate. We've never been apart!"

Sinbad looks at Rolly inquiringly.

"Her sister," the Fae man says softly. "She's werewolf."

The girl whirls, baring human-looking teeth in a furious pale face. "And starving, so back off! I promised not to touch any of these bitches while we have a common enemy, but I think you're fair game."

"Hold, Dzieba." The Fae woman raises her hand slightly. "They are prisoners, just like you. And I think there's been enough blood spilled tonight, don't you?"

The wolf-girl growls but keeps still.

The Fae woman appraises them, her dark eyes bright with intelligence, but tired. She's not old, but she looks to be perhaps the oldest woman here. Most of the girls are young—not children, but not middle-aged, either. Comfortably in their childbearing years, he realizes as his stomach sinks.

"Zara," the woman says finally, giving her hand to Rolly. He clasps it firmly. "From Taranis's clan."

"Rolly," he says. "From Odhran's. Sinbad has my clan leader's blessing as well. He and Tetsu were sent by the lowlanders to try to stop these creatures." He sounds exhausted. Sinbad just feels numb. The scent of blood hangs thick in the air.

"Lot of good that did," the wolf-girl grunts.

"We have to get you out of here. I can pick the lock. We should go now, before this happens again."

The women look at each other doubtfully, and Zara shakes her head. "No. Not without a plan. I won't risk the lives of my girls."

"Did you not see what just happened?" Rolly yells. It's the loudest Sinbad has ever heard the Fae man, and he flinches as the words echo through the rocky chamber.

"Exactly the same thing that's happened over and over for gods know how long now!" Zara booms back. She squares her shoulders and stares at him, black eyes snapping, refusing to back down. "Half of these women carry monsters inside them. You think I don't want them safe? They need a Fae mage and Fae healers to rid their bodies of the demonspawn. But walking out that door without a plan would be marching them to their graves!"

"She's right," Tetsu says gently, placing a hand on Rolly's shoulder. "Getting out this door is good, but only a start. We can't ask them to risk the danger of the tunnels without a plan. Without weapons."

"But what they're doing to you—" Poor Rolly sounds so lost. Sinbad feels for him. He has a wife, a daughter. Seeing these monsters corrupt their captives' bodies so horribly, twisting the natural beauty of childbearing to a macabre, grisly death, disturbs him greatly. It disturbs Sinbad, too, but he's never watched a woman he loves grow big with child, never felt her place a newborn in his arms. He doesn't understand this horror the same way Rolly does, the same way the women surrounding him do.

"My goal," Zara says, cutting off Rolly's protest, "is to get my girls out of here with the fewest number lost. Leaving with you now will not accomplish that." Her face softens slightly. "None of us here are weak. Fae or human." She glances at the girl kneeling on the floor. "Or wolf. We will survive. Find some weapons. Find the exit. Then we will talk."

The wolf-girl rises swiftly, her face a mask of fury. "Take me with you! They took my littermate. They deserve to pay." Her dark eyes sparkle with malevolence.

"Not yet," Zara says. "These men only survived discovery because the monsters were desperately hungry, too frenzied to notice. You stand no chance against them without weapons."

"Then let me out so I can find them!"

"Zara is right, brave one," Tetsu says, his voice even and low. "If you're discovered, they'll know their locks cannot hold us. You'll put all your sisters in danger."

"They're not my sisters! She was!" A bare, dirty foot stomps hard on the rocky floor, next to the wet red puddle.

"They became your sisters the moment you were taken. Their lives are in your hands."

The girl's sullen face tells them how little she agrees, but she presses her lips together and holds her tongue.

"I still don't feel right leaving you like this," Rolly says, glancing at the silent women clustered around.

Sinbad puts a hand on Rolly's back. He's exhausted, and his worn-out gut muscles won't stop shaking. He needs to rest. "She's right, my friend. Listen. Maeve has an emergency key. As soon as she finds us, we can get all these women the help they need immediately. They won't have to travel, won't have to brave the mountain in the snow. I promise."

Zara's eyes gleam. "The queen's firestarter? She's here?"

"On the mountain," Sinbad confirms with a nod. Just the mention of Maeve seems to bolster the women—the Fae, at least. His appearance did not bring them hope, but her name does. "And the captain of the queen's guard, too," he makes himself add, though he honestly doesn't know what good Lachlan can do from inside Odhran's palace.

"Then help is coming." The relief in Zara's tired eyes surprises Sinbad, and yet it doesn't. He understands the burden of command, of responsibility. Whether this woman chose her role as unofficial leader or not doesn't matter. She's well-suited to it, though Sinbad can see the toll it takes on her. The other women look to her for strength. Now he's given her something to cling to, as well. Not himself, but the promise that Maeve is out there. That their queen hasn't forgotten them, and sent her warrior of fire to free them.

"Go," Zara says, nodding toward the door. "Bring us word of what you find, please, if you can. My girls are strong. We will wait for the firestarter."

* * *

Maeve is not a creature of this mountain, not a bear or a wolf, not fox or rabbit or squirrel, but she's a wild thing, like them, trained from her earliest days by other wild things. Human, yes, but more. Where other humans would be lost, frozen in the bitter winter forest, she is not.

She thrives.

Pushing forward, lifting her nose to scent the wind, taste it on her tongue, she lets it tell her where it leads. Werewolves do not hunt alone, so she knows she's in for a fight. She welcomes it. Tracking the strange demon lurking on this mountain is maddening. She feels like she's spun in circles for days, never roaming far from that fucking lake she now despises, never getting any closer to her quarry. When she and Sinbad finally found the monster, it bested her and took him. She failed.

Well, she won't fail again. She doesn't understand the huge, terrifying skeletal demon, but she understands werewolves.

She draws her knife, easing the blade from its wet sheath at the small of her back. She's wet all over from slogging through shin-deep snow and then falling into a drift, the heat of her inner fire melting the frozen blanket, her body and hair visibly steaming as night slams down on the mountain, hard and desolate. The snow reflects what little light emerges from the low cloud cover. It's enough. She pushes on.

Easing her way around a large clump of ice-encrusted undergrowth, Maeve pauses for a moment. She can see the dancing light of a campfire to her left and down a gentle slope. The flames call to her. Were she blind she would still know them. She holds her breath and listens.

Voices float to her in the stillness of the snowy night. Male voices—angry ones. This is unsurprising. Female werewolves hunt sometimes, when they must, but the males don't like them straying far from their dens. No, she fully expects to find a number of male wolves, quite possibly arguing over a kill. She can hear their deep, guttural voices; their tongue is a Turkish dialect, their voices thickly accented and hard to follow. She strains her ears as she creeps closer, unable to make out more than a word or two. She's downwind of them but in another moment they'll either smell her anyway or feel her fire. She won't be undetected for long.

Maeve inhales another breath of the ice-cold night as the wind gusts past her. It brings the stinking reek of dog, the wolf-scent she's been following, but something else, too. Another scent, softer, buried beneath the stink of werewolf. A scent she doesn't expect.

Humans.

Werewolves stink like oily dogs, unwashed fur and rancid saliva, dirt and old blood. They project their smell like a beacon, to mark their territory and warn other creatures away. Like her inner fire, their reek proclaims what they are. Her own kind are different. Neither humans nor Fae scent-mark, their unique smells softer, less obtrusive. Humans smell like warmth—yeasty-sweet, like the grains they so like to eat, ripe wheat warm with summer sun. Even the rankest unwashed human man doesn't project his scent as werewolves do; she's unsurprised she missed their presence until now. Fae are even subtler, and she probes the scents on the wind thoroughly, searching for their familiar soft sweetness, finding nothing.

The scent of humans mixed with werewolves can only mean one thing—death. Abandoning all attempts at stealth, she urges her inner fire hotter and shoves her feet forward through the snow, moving as swiftly as she can down the gentle slope toward the dancing light of the fire. She doesn't smell fresh blood which means these humans are still alive, but they won't be for long if she doesn't intervene. Part of her wants to be irritated: there's no cause for any human to be so deep in the mountains, regardless of the weather. They should keep to the lowlands, and leave the high ground to wilder creatures. But she doesn't have time to be angry with them right now; not if she wants to save their lives. Winter means these wolves are hungry. They won't like her taking their dinner from them.

The humans gasp and the wolves snarl when she emerges from the night. She knows perfectly well what she looks like—red hair torn loose from its braid and throwing back the light of the flames, clothes charred and melted, steaming in the frigid winter air as if just birthed from the mouth of hell. They're right to fear her.

Six wolf-men turn toward her, growling low as they scent her, feel the heat of her inner fire. Packs are collectives, and they close ranks defensively when she appears, a being they cannot quickly place with their eyes and noses. They're big, rangy, bulky things, with thick black body hair, furrier than most men. Their rough, tattered clothes don't seem like enough to protect them from the icy mountain, but she's never met a werewolf who seems to care about the weather any more than she does. Maeve wrinkles her nose at the stink of them.

One wolf-man steps forward. He's not the biggest, but the way he moves tells her this is the alpha wolf, their leader. He raises his head and thrusts his shoulders back, broad and muscly, in a gesture of male aggression that crosses species boundaries without translation. Maeve rolls her eyes. Machismo neither interests nor frightens her. As far as she's concerned, he's no more than a kitten puffing up its fur to look tough.

He appraises her for a long moment, his pack-mates drawn up close around and just behind him. Maeve doesn't need to study him; she knows his kind perfectly well. She flicks her eyes to the side, reading the situation she shoved her way into. Two human men, one giant and one of normal size, stand facing the werewolves, a campfire between the groups. Their swords are drawn, but at the moment they don't know where to point them—at the beasts, or at her. Vaguely the sight of the huge man's sword stirs something in her memory. It's an eastern scimitar, large and ornate and ridiculous. Yes. Yes, she's seen these men before. Where and when doesn't come immediately, but it doesn't matter. She's going to save their lives, then kick them off this mountain. Southerners have no place here. Even Sinbad struggled, and despite her anger she admits he's one of the strongest men she's ever met.

The leader of the wolves tilts his head to the side as he sizes her up. "A trio of my brothers returned home a while ago," he says, black eyes bright with malevolence as he stares at her. "Maimed. One so badly he may yet die."

"Is this going somewhere?" She doesn't unbend from her defensive stance.

"They told a strange tale—the two who could talk." His voice is low, a deep growl rumbling up from a thick, hairy throat. "A bitch maimed them, they said. A bitch who looked human, smelled Fae, and burned like a flame." He inhales deeply, his hairy upper lip curling in what she thinks is disgust. "I didn't believe them."

Maeve snorts lightly. No doubt he didn't believe them. She's a little surprised they told the truth about being bested by a girl. Many men would not. Many _have_ not. She lifts one eyebrow slightly, dismissing the accusation with a careless hitch of her shoulder. "They attacked. I defended. They should pick easier prey next time." Her eyes flick to the two human men still staring at her. "I see you've already taken my suggestion."

The wolf growls, lowering himself slightly, beginning to mimic her fighting stance. "We caught our dinner fairly, and it's none of your business. I'm giving you the opportunity to turn and leave. To live. Don't make me regret it."

Maeve glances again at the two human men. The snow around them has been tramped down, wood gathered, the fire lit. Packs sit on the ground near them, heavy woolen cloaks discarded in crumpled heaps. "You came upon their campsite. I hardly call that a fair hunt."

"Anyone out on this mountain knows the consequences of their actions," the pack leader snarls. "If they were fool enough to sit on my doorstep, they deserve their fate."

"Open your eyes, Fido. Look at them. They're obviously strangers here. How were they to know they were in your territory?"

Several wolves growl low at her insult. "You're a stranger here, yet you know."

"I'm smarter than they are."

The smaller human bristles, drawing himself up taller and taking a breath as if to protest. The giant puts a quelling hand on his shoulder, squeezing hard.

"Then be glad we are removing two such imbeciles from the population." The lead wolf smiles unpleasantly. "This is the last time I will tell you. _Go_."

Maeve doesn't budge. "Why should you want them and not me?" She prods her flame, taunting them. The pack growls, keening low canine noises of anger and distress. They shift with discomfort. She grins, thoroughly enjoying their pain. "I'm just as human as they are."

"Are you?" The pack leader looks doubtful. He lifts his nose to the wind, scenting her again. She lets him. It amuses her, how easily men are manipulated, how much she confounds them—human, Fae, and apparently werewolf, too. He takes a cautious step toward her, inhaling slowly, letting her scent touch his tongue, invade his lungs. She watches, ever on her guard. She has a good four paces left before he gets too close.

"Human," the wolf allows after a moment, staring at her. "But not. And you stink of the Fae, as my brothers said."

"I live with them." She's actually pretty amused that they find Fae so offensive. To her they smell green and floral—lilac and oakmoss, cedar and earth.

The wolves mutter among themselves. Their leader's nostrils flare. "That is not how things are done."

"It is where I come from."

"Not here. And here is where you are." He frowns and lifts his nose again. "Live with the Fae, you say? But you're bred, and not to them."

Maeve snarls, as bestial as any werewolf, her anger instantly kindling. Her inner flame flares. All the men around her wince and draw back. "That's none of your goddamn business!" Her hand tightens on her knife. Her womb is her business and no one else's. Not even Sinbad's.

"Nor are you bred to them," the lead wolf says, nodding at the humans across the fire. "So I cannot see what my pack's dinner has to do with you."

It doesn't. Not really. These men are nothing to her. But, "There have been too many lives lost on this mountain for my liking. I may not be able to stop it all, but I can damn well stop you." Her fire flickers, growing with her resolve. She's done talking about this. She wants to fight.

"You're a lovely bitch, even if you stink of fairies. But that won't stop us from killing you."

The pack shifts, spreading out slightly, each man restless, defensive. They want to fight, too.

"According to my brothers, you needed help to injure only three of them. Now you are alone, and we are six."

"I didn't need help then, and I don't need it now." Fuck Sinbad, jumping in the middle of that fight. At the time she thought it was gallant. Now she's just pissed off. She sheathes her knife, sending the very clear message that she doesn't feel she needs it. Her full mouth curves in a beautiful, mocking smirk, and she spits very deliberately at the lead wolf's feet.

He lunges.

His movements loose the rest of the pack. They're on her in an instant. Deep satisfaction fills her, a feeling close to elation as she welcomes the attack. She couldn't fight the creature that took Sinbad, but she can fight these werewolves just fine. She laughs with delight and whirls, catching the wolf leader with a boot to the face, ducking under a swing from another of his pack. Snow churns and flies, mixed with blood after her fist knocks someone's teeth loose.

Now her knuckles are split and bleeding. She ignores it, the small pain almost as welcome as the fight. She swerves to the outside of a right hook from a hairy hand and drives her elbow into his exposed lower back, to the side of the spine, squarely into his kidney. He yelps like a week-old pup and drops.

"Come on, Firouz!" The giant urges his companion into the fight. Maeve doesn't mind as long as they don't get in her way. She drops into a small ball as a flying leap of an attack sails over her, then uses her legs to propel one wolf into the path of another. They collide with rib-cracking force.

"What the hell is she?" a wolf demands. He hangs back, helping one of his brothers to his feet, watching her warily.

"A goddamn problem!" Their leader snatches a burning stick from the fire, brandishing it at her.

Maeve laughs. She laughs so hard she nearly collapses. The giant grabs her shoulder in caution; she pats his hand and pushes it aside. "Please." She steps up to the torch and takes the burning end in her palm.

The fire flickers up her bare arm and her body absorbs it quickly, turning bright gold for a moment as the flames seep into her skin. Such a little torch doesn't feel like much, just a small tingling as its warmth and energy merge with her own inner flame. She raises her hand, smeared with soot but unburnt, and waves sweetly at the wolf-man.

He curses and drops the smoking branch, lowering himself and charging, aiming his brawny shoulder at her gut.

"No, you don't!" the giant admonishes, stepping between them. "Hasn't anyone ever told you not to hit a lady?" He doesn't attempt to stop the wolf at all, and the man rams into a gut much bigger and more muscled than he intended. The giant brushes him aside as if swatting a fly.

"Such a gentleman," Maeve finds herself saying.

The giant grins at her through his bushy beard, even as he swings at another wolf. "I can't understand these growly fellows, but I don't think I like how they were speaking to you." He clashes with another man, gripping each other's arms, bearing down with their weight as if in the wrestling ring.

"That?" She drives her fist into another mouth, feeling her knuckles tear further. "They're loathsome beasts, but they weren't trying to be rude. They call all their women bitches."

"No woman I know would stand for it!" The giant wins, his opponent crumpling under his greater force.

"That's because the women you know are human." She feels someone behind her and tries to turn a moment too late. The pack leader snaps a hard, stinking arm around her throat, choking off her air.

"I was wrong," he growls as she struggles against his big frame. "Not just a problem. She's a demon from hell!"

Maeve has no better idea what she is than the werewolves do, but the difference is that she doesn't care. And she knows what she can do. She pulls at her inner fire as if blowing on it with a bellows, letting the power inside her burn hot, hotter, fueling it with her anger at these beasts. She glows deep gold, the colors of flame flickering over her skin, the touch of her body searing the wolf attempting to choke her into submission. He howls and drops, releasing her, plunging his arms into the snow.

His pack brothers circle around him protectively, scooping handfuls of snow to press to his arms and chest. His burns steam in the frigid air when the snow touches them.

Maeve wrinkles her nose at the stench of burned hair. "Now you're the one steaming." She laughs, even as she remains low and on guard. The two human men flank her, one to each side, breathing heavily. The giant's ridiculous sword is no longer in his hand but the other man retains his weapon. Blood drips from the blade but none of the wolves are down. Yet.

"I bet she's the demon we've been looking for, Isari," a wolf says, pressing a handful of snow to his pack leader's arm. Bitter black eyes stare at her. "I bet she's behind it."

Maeve is ready to attack again, but the words stop her. A familiar, heavy sinking feeling settles in her gut. She straightens slightly, still breathing heavily. "What are you pinning on me now? I already admitted to bruising your brothers. They deserved it." She already knows what they're going to say, but she lets them say it.

The pack leader growls. "Not them. Though you did more than bruise them." His eyes narrow. Thick, unkempt eyebrows lower. "Two of our bitches have disappeared. Vanished while hunting." He trembles, though whether with rage or the pain of his burns, Maeve doesn't know. "If I find you've anything to do with it—"

"That's no way to talk about a woman!" the giant barks angrily, stomping closer to the huddled pack.

"Stay, stranger." Maeve extends an arm, stopping his advance. "I told you, that's what they call their women. They're not human, and you can't hold them to human standards."

The smaller man looks appalled at her words. "How can you say such a thing?"

The pack glares at them. The leader, still pressing snow to his burns, growls. "Were I born human, I'd have drowned myself the moment I could walk." The flames of the campfire reflect in his burning eyes.

The giant's blunt, good-natured face turns red and he opens his mouth.

"Stop!" Maeve can feel the little static sparkles that mean sparks are lighting in her hair as her irritation flares. The men around her, human and wolf alike, instantly still. "I will happily continue kicking your hairy asses if I have to, but wait a moment. You said two of your women disappeared?"

The pack leader stands slowly, handfuls of melting snow pressed to his skin. His burns are shiny, angry red, already blistering along the hard line of his collarbone. "And a number of my brothers. Men die; that is the way of things. But nobody touches our bitches!" The pack growls, low and dangerous.

"People have been disappearing from the lowland villages, too," the smaller human says hesitantly. He doesn't put his sword up, but its aim bobs as he hesitates. "That's why we were called here. To find them, and put a stop to it."

Great. More heroes from the lowlands. She should have known as much from the cut of their blades, the lilt of their accents. Maeve crosses her arms over her chest. "I was sent by the Fae."

The pack leader's lip curls. "They send a human bitch to do their dirty work?"

She smirks at him, dropping her eyes to rest on his fresh burns. "If you had me in your arsenal, you would, too."

"Ah, no offense," the smaller man says, raising his free hand, "but, when you say Fae, what exactly—"

"The infernal fairies!" the pack leader snaps, bending to scoop up more snow. "Don't you know anything, foreigner? The stinking, cursed fairies sent this…" He eyes Maeve, caught somewhere between disgust and unwilling desire, "...to solve their problem instead of doing it themselves!"

"Er, point of fact, fairies don't exist."

The giant lays a hand on his companion's shoulder. "Firouz, we just watched a girl turn to flame. I think this might not be the time to debate the existence of fairies."

Maeve doesn't want anything to do with these men. She doesn't have the time or the energy for them. But despite herself, despite her irritation and her weariness, she finds herself grinning fiercely at the big man. "I like you."

He turns red.

She considers the werewolves before her. "I've seen the thing that took your women. I understand you have no reason to believe me, but for what it's worth I had nothing to do with it."

"I believe nothing that comes from the mouth of such a devil as you." The pack leader spits at her feet.

It's an invitation to fight again and Maeve would love to take him up on it. Beating on werewolves soothes her soul, as well as her injured pride. But she's had her fun. Now she needs to save her energy for finding Sinbad. She clenches her fist, feeling the thin coating of dried blood over her split knuckles tear open again. "You're entitled to your own idiotic opinions; I don't care. But if you want your women back you're, ah, barking up the wrong tree." She snickers.

The leader growls low, but one of the others puts a palm on his bare shoulder. "She may be telling the truth. What would a female want with our bitches?"

"Sorry," the giant says, leaning toward her, "but I meant it when I said I couldn't understand them, and I'm freezing. Have they decided not to kill us, or what? I'd kind of like that more plainly settled."

Maeve glances at both human men, then back to the wolves. These men are nothing to her personally, and if she continues to protect them they'll only hinder her. Taking Sinbad to shelter and then teaming up was a bad idea; he slowed her down. She can't make that mistake again. But they're human beings—her people, living things with souls, and she just can't walk away. She entered this fight more out of pique than concern, but she can't make herself abandon them. "These two are forfeit to me. You can't have them."

"They don't concern you!" the pack leader snarls. "You're not in whelp to either of them, and you say yourself that you fight for the Fae! Keep to your own business."

"And you keep your damn mouth shut if you can't keep to yours!" Maeve snarls right back. "I'm not one of your bitches, and I already told you to shut the fuck up about that!" She feels the snap of static that precedes sparks; he'll have her flaming in another moment if he doesn't watch himself. "You. Can't. Have. Them. This isn't my mountain, but I'm a creature of the wild just as much as you are. Out here, the only thing that matters is that I'm stronger than you. And you know it." Her eyes narrow and the corners of her mouth curl upward as she dares him to contradict her.

He struggles to keep his fury under control. He wants to disagree—wants badly to tell her, prove to her, that he and his brothers are stronger than she is. But he can't. Not with those burns already blistering his arms and throat. Not when he doesn't know what else she might be capable of.

He draws a breath, then another, drinking in the freezing mountain air. The campfire pops loudly, a log collapsing into embers. "Perhaps we can trade?" he says finally, grudgingly, resentful black eyes watching her warily. "My brothers and I are hungry, and we have pups to feed as well." He looks hungrily at the giant, then back at Maeve. "Surely there is something that you want?"

"Not from—" The words freeze on her tongue. She looks at the wolves appraisingly.

The smaller human sucks in a sharp breath.

"They're out of this reckoning," Maeve says, nodding at the two men. "I've said you can't eat them, and I mean it."

"They don't seriously mean to eat—" the smaller man begins.

Maeve cuts him off. He's starting to annoy her. "What else would a werewolf want with you? Be still."

"With dinner off the table, what bargain could be made?" The pack leader makes a strange noise, a very canine-sounding yip. It takes a moment for Maeve to realize he's laughing. "You're a lovely thing, I'll admit, but you stink like the Fae and you're already in whelp. No self-respecting wolf would touch you."

"Any wolf who tries dies," she says flatly.

"Then what do you possibly have of worth to us?"

"Your women."

Hard black eyes watch Maeve, dark with mistrust. "Careful, devil. If you've touched them, every wolf on this mountain will be on you. It doesn't matter how many of my brothers you kill. No one touches our bitches!"

She rolls her eyes. "Your threats are getting repetitive. Stale. You need some new material. And to shut up once in a while."

The pack shifts restlessly. The leader holds up his hand, stilling them. They obey without question, but not happily. They're hungry, angry, and now hurt as well. Maeve knows she knocked teeth out of at least two of them. The smaller man's sword shows that he cut at least one, and the man whose kidney took her elbow will be pissing blood for days. They're not in any mood to listen to her. They want their food, and their women.

"Tell me," Maeve says, cautious, as if inching out onto ice she doesn't trust to hold her weight. She can't believe what she's doing. Werewolves can't be trusted. "I was trained by the Fae, but my nose is still human. How are yours, in this shape? Any better?"

Their leader's eyes blaze as if she slapped him. "There is no comparison."

"Even in this form?" she prods, needing to be sure. "Even without the wolf's body?"

"Nothing can escape the wolf, in _any_ form," the pack leader says flatly.

A tiny smile lifts the corners of her mouth. "I'm Maeve," she says. "And if you're telling the truth, I think we may be able to deal."

"For dinner?"

"No. For your people. And mine."

The pack shifts again as the wolf-men mutter and grumble among themselves. They don't trust her, and they have no reason to, but they badly want their women back. Their brothers, too, if possible, but the animal instinct to guard their females runs strong. Maeve ruthlessly dangles that as bait. She can't be sure the creature that took Sinbad also took the werewolves but she's willing to bet everything she has—willing to bet Sinbad's life—on the chance.

"Uh...Maeve, is it?" The giant leans toward her again. "What exactly are you doing?"

"Gambling. But not with your life, so don't worry about it. You're out of this reckoning. I suggest you and your companion get the hell off this mountain, though. Tonight."

"We can't." He gives her a strange look. "We're hunting for my brother. Don't you remember? We asked you before if you'd seen him."

She frowns at the giant. "When was this?"

"The other day. At the side of a lake. You'd, ah, been swimming. Warned us of a demon," the smaller man says.

Vague, watery memories filter through her mind, but that time is all a haze. "No," she says honestly. "I wasn't exactly feeling myself just then, and I don't remember. But I didn't lie. There's a demon haunting these woods, and if you don't want to die you need to beat it."

The pack leader turns from his brothers. "You said you didn't have our bitches." His voice quells the angry mutters of his pack.

"I don't. But I've seen the thing that took them. It took my...companion, too." What else to call Sinbad, she doesn't know. He's her partner in this quest, or he was. Other than that, she can't say. Are they even friends? "I was tracking it when I lost the scent and found yours."

"You want us to find it for you." The wolf scoffs. "Why? What earthly reason do we have to help you?"

"Because wherever that monster went, that's where your people are. Your women." She hopes, anyway. If they're not already dead. "You take me there, and I will kill it." She'll kill that thing with a smile on her face.

The wolf looks doubtful. "You take away our dinner, attack our pack, admit to maiming our brothers, and now expect our help? On only your word?"

"I don't expect anything. You can do as you please, as long as you leave these two alone." She nods at the human men once again huddled in their cloaks. Even with a campfire they're slowly freezing; she now wonders if they'll survive the night. She needs to find Sinbad, but can she leave these two to their fate? "I'm going to hunt this creature with or without you. I'm offering you a chance to help, to free your people if they still live. That's all." She'll dangle the prospect of their women as bait, but she won't lie—she has no idea if they're still alive. If Sinbad's still alive.

The pack rumbles again, arguing in hushed tones. Maeve can't make out their words, but she doesn't need to. Some want to agree. Others do not. She can't guess what they'll ultimately choose, or what she hopes for. Part of her wants the help they can provide—their superior noses for searching out this creature. Part of her would just as soon be free of them. Werewolves can't be trusted. Just as a tiger makes a terrible pet, a wolf makes an awful ally. Their loyalty is only to each other.

"We can't just leave," the giant says softly as the wolves mutter and growl. He stamps his feet to keep warm, but his size doesn't make him impervious to the cold. His smaller companion is already shaking violently. "My brother came up the mountain and didn't come back. We have to find him!"

"I don't know what to tell you." She feels for them, she truly does. Missing Sinbad is the worst thing she's ever felt, worse by far than any physical wound. "You're not dressed for the weather—a simple cloak won't stop you from freezing."

"I know," the smaller man says as he shakes. "We spent last night on the move to keep warm."

"And you can't keep doing that indefinitely." She glances at him, but turns her eyes quickly back to the wolves. "Now you're in trouble with a pack of werewolves. I won't let them eat you tonight, but I don't have time to be your bodyguard. I'm sorry."

The giant's grey-blue eyes harden. "I won't leave my little brother! You don't understand. He means everything to me."

"Then you shouldn't have let him wander up here in the first place." She doesn't want to upset them. Truly, she doesn't. But she has problems of her own, and vows to keep. To Riona. To Odhran and Lachlan. Hell, even to Sinbad. As he was taken away he told her to stop this creature. She can't let him down, no matter how angry she is.

The muttering of the pack stills. Their leader shakes his head. "There is no deal. We have no proof of what you say. There may be no demon at all, and if there is, you cannot be sure it took our bitches."

"So be it." Maeve inclines her head at them, accepting their decision. She took a chance, and lost. It's all right. She'll wait for the wind to die down, as it often does near dawn, and try once more to find the trail. "Either way, you still may not have these two."

"For now," the leader allows. His hungry eyes narrow. "But they are not yours. Once you leave, my six will be stronger than their two. You've bought them time. You haven't saved them."

Maeve watches as the pack retreats, their black hair and pale skins fading into the dark night. When she can no longer smell a trace of them on the wind, she turns to her new companions.

"We often defy the odds, you know," the smaller man says through chattering teeth. He rubs his hands together before offering her his palm. "F-f-firouz," he stutters out.

She touches her palm to his, unsurprised when he yelps and snatches his hand away.

"You're hot!"

"Steaming, remember?" She points to her hair, nearly dry now.

"What…ah, what are you?"

"Your guardian, at the moment." She sighs. She doesn't have time for this entanglement. Rubbing her face with her palm, she makes a decision. "Come on. Get your packs. I'll take you to shelter if you promise to stay there until you either run out of food or I come back."

"Why?" The giant is dubious. "We won't find my brother sitting in some shelter."

"But you won't freeze to death, either." She crouches at the side of their campfire and plunges her hand into the middle of it.

Firouz cries out an appalled warning and lunges for her, but the fire rushes up her arm, drawn into her body, its heat and energy absorbed by her inner flame. She gleams golden-orange for a long moment, longer than she did with the wolf's little torch. The energy fortifies and strengthens her, which is good. She'll need it for the long night ahead.

"Look, I don't have time for a lot of questions. I meant it when I said my companion was taken. I've got to get him back." And all the others.

The men lift their packs and come with her willingly enough. Luckily there's an _óstán_ about a half-mile away. She watches Firouz with concern. He doesn't have as much natural padding as his friend, and he needs to be out of the wind, the snow. The big guy could probably survive the night outdoors with his cloak and a fire, but Firouz won't.

"Thank you, by the way," the giant says as they trudge, huffing clouds of steam. "We usually don't need help defending ourselves, but suddenly those men were on top of us. I never heard a thing."

"You wouldn't," she says, pressing forward, breaking their trail through the snow. At least they've learned enough in their time on the mountain to walk single-file. Firouz comes last, after she and the giant have made their path a little more manageable. "You're lucky you stayed alive long enough for me to find you. Werewolves are usually ambush predators."

"Lycanthropes. You mean to tell me those were real lycanthropes?" Firouz pants.

"Very real, and very deadly."

"But they haven't been killing people?"

"Of course they kill people." She snorts. "They'll eat just about anything that moves, besides Fae, but humans are their favorite. But no, they're not behind all the disappearances." She stops at the base of a sprawling oak tree. "Hey, giant, can you grab that rope?"

"Name's Doubar, pretty lady." He grins and reaches up, grabbing the rope ladder easily.

"Is your brother as huge as you?"

"No. He takes after our mother." His cheery face sobers. "He can't be dead. He _can't_ be."

Maeve is fairly sure he can, whoever he is. Between the cold, the snow, the werewolves, and the creature she's hunting, a lone lowlander doesn't stand a chance. Telling Doubar so won't do any good, so she keeps her mouth shut. She swings herself up to the platform, kicking away the heavy blanket of snow as she goes.

The tree groans under Doubar's weight. He helps her without a word, brushing the thick snow off the roof of the tiny _óstán_.

"I know it's not much," Maeve says, opening the door and motioning to them. "But there's a roof over your heads, charcoal and food and a blanket."

"I don't care how small it is," Doubar says, swiftly pushing Firouz inside. "It'll fit the two of you just fine."

Maeve shakes her head. "The two of _you_, big boy. I need to eat and wait for the wind to die down, but I'm not staying. I've got a monster to kill."


	11. Chapter 11

**The Mountain**

Pairing: Maeve/Sinbad  
Rating: M (language, sex, violence)  
Setting: Alternate  
All standard disclaimers apply

* * *

"Tetsu. I don't think Sinbad can go much further."

"I can." He limps out the door and Tetsu shuts it behind them. The complete darkness of the mountain swallows them once more. Sinbad hates locking the women up again as much as Rolly does, but Zara was right. They're not equipped to safely lead an escape yet, and those girls are terrified. Other than the lone wolf-girl, they probably won't be any help. It's not their fault, any more than the indifference of the captive men is, but it does make their rescuers' job more challenging. More people to save means more risk, and the riskier the rescue, the more prepared they have to be. They can't make a desperate break tonight.

Tetsu breathes lightly, with hardly a sound. "You're hurt, brother. I think Rolly is right this time."

They're right, but Sinbad isn't interested in listening. "No," he says with a little grunt as he pulls himself further upright. "We need to keep going. We need to find an exit. Weapons. Those girls are depending on us."

"None of them looked in danger of giving birth in the next day or two. We can rest when they take the workers away again, and search once more when they come back." Rolly tugs lightly on the end of Sinbad's _hijam_, held tight to keep them together in the utter darkness.

"You mean _dying_ in the next day or two." Sinbad refuses to call what they just witnessed giving birth. Whatever that thing was that ripped its way out of the laboring woman's belly, it wasn't a baby. Not in his mind, and he doubts the captured women feel any differently.

"Listen to him, Sinbad. I am a warrior, like you. A samurai is a sworn protector. But we are useless to them if we fall sick or die. Rest. Eat. Then try again."

Sinbad hates it. Everything in him struggles against it. But the injured muscles in his abdomen are threatening to give out, and he doesn't know if he'll be able to walk when they do. So, though he hates it with every ounce of his being, he turns back the way they came.

They walk more swiftly this time, more secure in their knowledge of the tunnels, Tetsu marking every fiftieth pace with a whispered count. Sinbad recalls the single turning they took, and they make it back to their own cell faster than he expects. He grunts softly as they slip inside and lock themselves in, staggering against Rolly's hard shoulder. He hurts more than he thinks he ever has before, and Rolly and Tetsu all but drag him to a spot near the other men.

They ease down as quietly as they can, the sour breath and snores of their fellows oddly comforting after the endless black silence of the mountain. The torches on the walls burn sullen and red, but Sinbad is grateful for them nonetheless. Anything is better than the oppressive, yawning darkness, thick and hovering, deep and menacing.

"Let me see the stitches I put in you," Rolly whispers.

Sinbad loosens his _hijam_ and raises his shirt, exposing the red, swollen seams sewed into his gut. They pucker where Rolly's stitches have pulled the ragged edges of flesh back together. The whole area is hot to the touch, and his muscles quake with fatigue.

Rolly looks solemn as he examines the wounds, but he says nothing. There's nothing to say—nothing any of them can do. Sinbad's body is fighting as hard as it can with no healers, no medicine, no clean water. He has to be strong enough to heal on his own; he has no choice.

They settle for what's left of the night—what they assume is night, time having lost all meaning. Sinbad relaxes and tries to sleep despite the pain, despite his worry. They need to free these people, and they need to stop the demons from reproducing. They need to wipe out the hive completely. These monsters are too dangerous to leave alive. How to do that, he doesn't know. Killing them one by one feels like an exercise in futility—there are so many, and no telling how many of those juvenile...things, like the one ripped from the poor dead girl. How will they ever know if they've killed them all? Demons could hide in the mountain easily, in the caves and tunnels, waiting for Sinbad and Tetsu to leave, only to start this whole nightmare all over again. They need to find a way to be sure they've killed them all.

He dozes fitfully, unable to reach full, deep sleep. He's in too much pain, and too much turmoil. He wants Firouz's brain, Doubar's brawn. Rongar's skill with weapons. Dim-Dim's magic. More than anything else, he wants Maeve's fire. So what if she can't always control it? Letting it flame unchecked sounds like the best thing in the world right now.

His mind wanders as he dozes, falling in and out of disjointed dreams. He sees his Maeve, tall and bright and perfect, her arms gently cradling a ripe, swollen belly. Something in him melts—not just his frozen body, but his injured heart as well. Yes. That's exactly what he wants, once this is all over. To welcome a new life, something sweet and pure, after all this death and destruction. He knows he's dreaming, knows the image in his head isn't real, but he reaches for her anyway, needing the heat of her skin, the kiss of that sweet fire.

Before he can touch her the image shifts, darkening, lit not by southern sunlight but sputtering torches. He's in the women's cell again, except this time the girl laboring on the floor is Maeve. She screams as the thing in her belly moves. He lunges for her, but the crowd holds him back, pinning his arms, surging around him like a wave, keeping him from her.

"It's too late," Zara says, and he can smell it now, the reek of their captors, the scent of rotted death, sickening in its intensity.

Maeve's wailing scream as her belly ruptures turns suddenly into the grating sound of the barred window clanging open. Sinbad jerks awake, sweaty and disturbed, momentarily confused. He sucks in a deep breath, the smell of unwashed male bodies strong in the room. The living rankness settles him. He's locked underneath a mountain, yes, but Maeve isn't in the other cell with the captured women. She's out in the open air, alive. Safe. He closes his eyes and exhales a long, shaky breath. He'll stay here forever, he'll gladly die down here, if it means his dream never comes to pass. These demons can't have her.

Tetsu brings him his bowl on silent feet. How long they slept Sinbad doesn't know, but it's not enough. His whole body aches worse than it did when he collapsed. Sitting up proves impossible without a wall to lean on. Fighting his upper body into an upright position, he can't suppress a groan of pain.

"You shouldn't be up." Rolly glances at his gut but doesn't ask to see the wounds again. They both know what he'll find. Sinbad's fighting hard, but wound-sickness is setting in. It's a reality he can't deny anymore, not with how he feels. He swallows his food carefully, anxious not to bring it back up. He's queasy, and the sweat on his brow tells him he's feverish despite feeling colder than ever. The jagged slices in his gut throb with pain, swollen and hot though the rest of him is fucking freezing. He tenses his muscles, trying not to shiver. Shivering hurts, and wastes energy besides.

"Rest," Tetsu says, watching him with sharp eyes. "If you are not well, you can't come with us later."

But rest proves impossible. The demons come soon after their meal, as always, and this time they do not pass by Sinbad and his friends. Tetsu opens his mouth to protest, but Sinbad grabs his arm and fights his way to his feet, head reeling. Rolly grabs his other side to help steady him.

"You can't work!" Tetsu hisses, furious, as between them they help Sinbad stagger into line.

"You saw what they did to that girl last night when she was no longer of use to them!" Sinbad hisses back. He has no illusions about what will happen if he refuses to work, no matter his condition. After witnessing last night's feeding frenzy he's unwilling to challenge their captors—not until they're ready to truly revolt. He's not afraid of death, but he refuses to become a meal for these monsters. He can make it through a day of toil. He has no choice.

Tetsu looks angrier than Sinbad has ever seen him before, but the ronin presses his mouth closed and says no more. He and Rolly can do nothing for Sinbad right now, and protesting won't help anyone. They leave the cavern in a ragged line, turning down the same tunnel they explored the night before. At the fork, where they turned left to reach the women's cell, this time they turn right. Two torches light their way, one held by the demon at the front of the line, the other by the demon at the back. They don't give much light, but it's enough to see the black rock around them, the tunnel stretching away endlessly, slanted down, into the deep of the mountain.

Sinbad tries to count paces, but it's too difficult to keep track through the pain. Staying upright requires all his concentration. Somehow in the darkness he loses first Rolly, then Tetsu, finding himself pressed between strangers. He unwinds his _hijam_ and re-wraps it around his middle much more tightly. It helps with the pain, but only slightly. He clenches his jaw and continues on. He has too much to live for to give up now, too many people counting on him. Tetsu and Rolly, and all the men they're imprisoned with, whether they realize it or not. The women in their cell. Maeve. His brother and crew. He can't quit. He just can't.

As they near the end of the tunnel, Sinbad starts to see little side tunnels branching off the main corridor. He can't keep track of how many—too many. This part of the mountain is like a maze, more like a mine than the long, straight tunnel near his cell. He's curious where these smaller tunnels lead, but he has no energy to duck his head in, nor light to explore. He continues with the group.

They reach a dead end, near which stands a locked wooden door. Pickaxes and shovels are distributed from behind a locked wooden door, and Sinbad takes careful note as a tool is placed in his hands. He'd by far rather have his saber, but these tools will do for weapons. He looks around for Rolly and Tetsu, but in the near-darkness he can't see them.

"Hurry up," the man next to Sinbad grunts, nudging him into a small opening. The men disperse into little side tunnels and Sinbad obeys as well as his body can. The opening is narrow, and he sidles through. Inside, he finds a small chamber with several little nooks hewn out of the rock.

"What are these for?"

The tall, thin man beside him shrugs. "You think I care?"

"Name's Sinbad." He grunts as he hefts his pickaxe. His injured gut spasms. He lifts the axe high and brings it down with force against the living rock of the mountain. Reverberations slam up his arms, through his shoulders and neck, eclipsing his world with white-hot pain for a long moment. He staggers and almost drops the pickaxe.

The thin man observes his struggle blandly. "You're the new one. The one they brought in bleeding."

"Aye," Sinbad grunts through the pain. He leans on his axe and concentrates on breathing. Inhale, exhale. Again. "What's your name?" he manages to wheeze.

The man's tired, indifferent shrug says more than his blank face. "Why's it matter? You won't be alive long enough to remember." He turns away and lifts his own pickaxe.

* * *

"Listen. I'm grateful. Really, I am. You saved our lives. But no slip of a girl's going to tell me what to do!"

Maeve drags the metal brazier into the doorway of the _óstán_, ignoring Doubar's indignant bellow. She unrolls the thick woolen bedroll and tucks it around Firouz's shoulders as the man huddles in his cloak, shivering violently. "Stay inside, out of the wind," she says. "Once I deal with your blowhard friend, the two of you can squish inside and close the door."

"H-h-he's a g-g-good m-man." Firouz's teeth chatter as he shivers.

"That's what they all say." She shakes charcoal into the brazier and drops a flame from her hand into the metal dish. It lights instantly, licking hungrily at the fuel. Maeve gathers the iron pan and the bag of food and nudges Firouz firmly toward the flame. "Go on, huddle up close. There's no shame in being cold. You just don't carry as much natural padding as your friend."

"Wh-a-a-at ab-bout y-y-you?"

"I'm never cold."

"One of the werewolves said you're a demon," Doubar says uneasily. "I understood very little of their talk, but I did catch that."

Maeve laughs despite how tired she is. She finds these two amusing, and if she had the time she might well agree to babysit them as they search for their missing friend. She doubts the man's alive, but finding his body or any trace of him would help them accept his loss. As it is, she has neither the time nor the energy. She'll have to leave them here in the _óstán_ and hope for the best. Too many people are already counting on her and she can't let them down.

"I've never known a woman to laugh at being called a demon."

"I'm not a normal woman, I guess." She laughs at the irony. There are so many ways in which she's not a normal human woman; these two don't know the half of it. "I'm human, since that's what you're really asking." She slices cured sausage into the warming pan, stomach rumbling with hunger. The night's passing swiftly, closer to dawn now than dusk. She dumps two large onions into Doubar's lap. "Make yourself useful."

Firouz is shaking so hard he'll hurt himself if he handles a knife, so she lets him be. She digs an apple out of the bag of provisions and takes a bite. "There. Do demons eat apples?"

"D-d-dependsss w-which r-r-religion you f-follow," Firouz stutters.

She makes a face. "Well, I refuse to bite a raw onion just for your amusement. Anyway, the better question is whether it matters. I just saved your lives. Do you really care what I am?"

Doubar's round, hairy face crinkles into a sheepish smile. "Guess not. But I've never met a girl who, uh, steams like that."

She shrugs. "Only in all this gods-be-damned snow."

"Do you really live with fairies?"

They don't like to be called fairies, but Maeve is tired of explaining herself to humans. Sinbad was one thing. She has no intention of taking these two anywhere near a clan, so she doesn't bother to correct him. "I do." She slices the rest of the apple into the pan. She's starving and Doubar is huge, so she makes more food than she normally would. She has to remind herself not to overeat—as soon as the wind dies down, she's moving on.

"The companion you said was taken. Were they a fairy?" Doubar's hesitant. He doesn't seem an automatic skeptic like his friend, but if he's like most southerners he's never seen a member of the Fae and he's reasonably wary of her claim. Sinbad was much the same. Just thinking his name hurts, but she pushes the pain ruthlessly down.

"No. A man," she says tightly, slicing a turnip and stirring the full pan with her fingers. She doesn't want to talk about Sinbad. Not with anyone, and especially not with strangers. "He may not even be alive. Probably he isn't. But the thing that took him needs to be stopped."

"When we came upon you before, you said it chased you into a lake."

She doesn't remember, but she nods. "I hate water, but that creature hates it more."

"H-h-how can you h-hate water?" Firouz's violent shivers are improving as he sits huddled over the brazier, breathing in the steam of the cooking food. He holds his palms a breath away from the heated metal sides.

Maeve rolls her eyes. "I'm fire. You figure it out."

He shuts his mouth.

"If the creature you saw really is behind the disappearances, maybe it took my brother, too," Doubar says.

"It's possible," Maeve allows. It's even probable, unless the werewolves got him first. Or the cold. But she knows where this is going, and she has no intention of encouraging them. She's not taking them with her. They'll only slow her down.

She shakes the pan, fat from the sausage melting, coating the cooking food with a gleaming sheen of oil. She smells fennel and pepper and other spices as the sausage heats, and her empty stomach growls. Breaking trail through deep snow takes a lot of energy, and she's been doing it all day. Fighting the werewolves made her feel a little better, not worse, but now she needs to recharge, especially if she won't sleep tonight.

"If that demon probably took my brother, we should go with you. Like I said before." Doubar circles back around to the exact point she didn't want to return to.

"That's not a good idea." Normally she doesn't have a problem being blunt with people, but she finds herself liking these two odd southern men, and doesn't want to hurt their feelings. "No offense, but I need to move quickly. And those werewolves weren't playing around. You need to get off their mountain."

"It's not their mountain, and I'm not leaving without my brother," Doubar says, his bushy eyebrows lowering stubbornly.

"You want to tell them it's not their mountain? Because I sure don't." Maeve rubs her eyes roughly. "Look. You seem like nice guys. You really do. I'd hate to see you get hurt, and by hurt I mean eaten." She stretches her tired legs out in front of her, easing the sore muscles. When she gets back to a clan, any clan, she's plopping herself down in a hot bath for at least a day. Maybe two. She has no idea what it feels like to be cold, but her aching muscles want hot water. "I can't force you to leave. I mean, I could, but I don't have time to herd you down to the lowlands. So please, just go? It'll be better for us all, I swear."

The giant shakes his head firmly. "If you had brothers or sisters, you'd understand. He's all I have."

"You have Firouz." She nods her head at the man huddled just inside the doorway, no longer shaking.

"He's the best friend a man could have, but it's not the same." Gray eyes search hers. Maeve doesn't like that; it's too personal. She looks away, concentrating on the cooking food. "Can't you understand?"

She lifts her shoulders, shrugging off his entreaty, her own discomfort. "I guess not. It's always been just me." Except when she had Sinbad. With him, she didn't feel alone. It was such a strange sensation, to feel someone so close, enmeshed with her, in tune with her. Now that he's gone, it feels like a piece of her own self is missing. It hurts so fucking much, and she hates him for it.

As if he can read her mind, Doubar asks, "What about that companion of yours? You're risking your life to save him, aren't you?"

She stirs the cooking food with her fingers, turning the browned pieces of onion and turnip, apple and sausage, resolutely not looking at the big man. She can feel his desperation, his need to find his brother, and it makes her almost as uncomfortable as talking about Sinbad. "I didn't know him that well, or that long. I'm doing my job," she says tightly.

"Your job? That's it?"

"That's it." It isn't. Not at all. But she owes these men nothing, and her relationship with Sinbad is too complicated to explain, anyway. She loves him. Hell, she's carrying his child. But he's probably dead, and even if he's not, he isn't hers. He won't stay, and she won't ask him to.

"That can't be it." Doubar fights against the air of indifference she's desperate to maintain. "I don't believe the woman who fought a pack of werewolves to save two strangers would think that."

"You can believe what you want. I can't stop you." She plucks a chunk of apple from the pan and bites down. "Eat. Then you can figure out how to fit the two of you and the fire inside. I'm leaving as soon as the wind dies down."

Doubar isn't happy, but for the moment he holds his tongue. He's too hungry to eat and argue at the same time, for which Maeve is grateful. Bodies need more fuel in the cold and these southerners aren't used to it. They eat ravenously, and for a while there's no more argument. Maeve relishes the quiet. Though the energy from the campfire helped, she's still weary to her bones. She'd love nothing more than to curl up on this platform and sleep, but she can't. She has promises to keep and the night is waning.

A sudden, soft noise below the platform makes Maeve jerk. She kneels at the edge, peering cautiously over, shushing Doubar's started question with an impatient hand.

A lone man stands below. Her nose flares as she catches his scent. No, not a man. A wolf.

His head lifts toward her, and she recognizes his face. He's young, probably the youngest of the pack she just beat on. He's barely a glimmer in the night, pale skin and rough clothing, his cheeks only lightly bearded.

"What the fuck do you want?" she demands, slightly rattled to find a wolf at her door. "Another beating?"

He smiles. His teeth gleam, stark white in the dark night. "I've been standing here for a while. Took you long enough to notice."

"I'm eating, not standing guard." She hopes she sounds as if she doesn't care. In truth, she's a little unsettled. She didn't really expect the pack to immediately turn and track them. She's not scared of werewolves, but that doesn't mean she wants to fight her way through them again.

"You scared Isari. I've never seen him scared before." The wolf stands silently in the snow. He makes no attempt to climb, no attempt to attack.

"Good. He deserved it." Maeve glances quickly at the silent forest around them. She doesn't see or smell any other wolves, and she doesn't know what that means. Werewolves don't do anything solo. This one shouldn't be here.

"I expected you to be harder to find. Don't ask me why. Maybe because of how you fight."

She shrugs. "I wasn't going for stealth." She didn't try to hide their tracks or obscure their scent trail, because Firouz needed warmth more than they needed secrecy. It was a calculated choice, but now she wonders if it was the right one.

"Even so." He blinks up at her, eyes black as the surrounding night.

She hesitates. Is he a scout, meant to find them and report back? She's never heard of werewolves doing such a thing, but she can't think of any other reason for him to be alone. "Are we done here?"

For the first time, the wolf hesitates. His shoulders hunch under his torn shirt. "Did you mean what you said? About the creature?"

Doubar pokes his head over the edge of the platform. "What's going on? Is that one of those growly fellows again? I can't understand him."

Maeve pushes him back. "Eat," she says. "Let me handle this. Unless you want to become dinner."

The young wolf grins. "I'm hungry."

Werewolves don't eat plants. Maeve digs a sausage out of the bag of provisions and drops it to him.

He picks it up and grimaces. "Goat? And smoked, too."

"Take it or leave it. I'm not in the habit of feeding dogs."

The wolf bites into the food, the casing snapping under his teeth. "Did you mean it?" he asks again. "The creature."

"I meant it." She watches him devour the sausage hungrily. "I've seen it, and I've seen what it can do. Your alpha's right, though—I have no proof it took your women." She doesn't blame the pack leader for not helping her. She gave him no reason to.

The young wolf's shoulders hunch further. His head drops forward before he forces it back once more, peering up at her. She can't read his expression in the dark, but his body language screams distress. "They're my littermates." His voice cracks—maybe he's even younger than she thought. "My sisters."

Oh. "I'm sorry." She's not sure what to say. She didn't know wolves had any feeling for each other other than as a collective.

"Isari feels insulted because they were taken. I just want them back."

Maeve blinks. She's dealt with werewolves on numerous occasions, but always as enemies. She never before considered that they might have true emotions, something beyond instinct. She shifts, leaning further over the edge of the platform. "Who are you?"

The wolf looks at her for a long moment. "Suni," he says finally.

"Does your pack leader know where you are? What you're doing?"

Slowly the man shakes his head.

"Is that even allowed?" Firouz wonders softly.

Keen wolf ears hear him despite the distance. "No." Suni shifts restlessly in the snow. Werewolves are pack animals—a collective. They do not act alone. Maeve wasn't even aware that it was possible. But here stands a single wolf, alone in the snow, and her senses tell her that the rest of the pack isn't here. He really is on his own.

"Why are you here?" She isn't stupid enough to throw down the rope ladder, but she slips her legs over the side of the platform and drops nimbly to a lower limb of the tree.

"I want my sisters back." Suni's black eyes watch her steadily. He's not afraid of her. Considering the beating she just gave his pack, Maeve is surprised. And a little impressed. "You said you had the creature's scent."

"I did. I lost it."

He takes a breath, hesitates. Then, "Will you show me?"

Maeve considers the request. She asked the wolves for help before, but that was an offer of mutual agreement between herself and the alpha. It would have bound them to a temporary truce, and afforded Doubar and Firouz safety while on the mountain. Suni can give her none of this. They may even be in more danger if she agrees. She doubts they look kindly on disobedience like Suni's.

But Sinbad. Senna's husband. All the others who have been taken, and the ones who will be if she doesn't stop this creature. She'll keep searching with or without this wolf, but his nose is better than hers. Far better, if the pack leader's to be believed.

"Will you be in trouble with your alpha?"

The young wolf nods. "Very." He shifts his weight again, unsettled and unhappy.

"I didn't know wolves could disobey like this."

"We can. We don't."

But he has. His tie to his sisters must be stronger than his fear of his alpha, which is something Maeve never expected from the male-dominated wolves. She drops to the lowest limb of the tree, looking at the young man before her. "I can't guarantee anything. I don't know that this creature took your sisters. I don't know if they're still alive."

"But you believe it."

"I know there's a creature, and I believe it took your women, yes."

"And you believe you can fight it."

With every fiber of her being. She's too angry to lose. "I can fight it."

The young wolf nods. "That's more than Isari can give me." He raises his chin. "Where did you lose the scent? I can find it."

Maeve drops silently to the ground. Her knees flex as she lands on her feet in the snow.

"Oh, no, you don't!" Doubar throws his leg over the side of the platform, only just remembering to drop the rope ladder before he plummets. "Not without me!"

Maeve groans. "I already told you no!"

"That boy is too growly, but I understood you well enough." He climbs down far more swiftly than she expects for a man of his size. "He wants his sisters? Well, I want my brother!"

Maeve swears as Firouz lowers himself down behind Doubar. "Seriously?"

"You can't let a wolf come with you and not me." Doubar towers over her. "You can't stop us."

She stares at the two human men standing before her, the wolf at her side. She's the Fae queen's bodyguard and vassal—never did she dream she'd be in this position, teamed up with a lone werewolf and two southerners who can barely walk in snow, about to take on a creature of nightmare to save the father of her unborn child. It's ludicrous. Pure stupidity to bring these two with her. But they have a point. How can she stop them? She doesn't have time to force them back to the lowlands, and even if she did, she couldn't stop them from turning around and marching right back up.

"Fine," she snaps, giving up on winning this fight. "You want to risk your necks? I can't stop you. But I don't have time to babysit. Keep up or fall behind, it's all on you. And be aware that the rest of the pack may be on us at any moment."

"Why would they bother?" Firouz adjusts the strap on his pack.

"Because you're tasty, and he's a traitor." She nods in Suni's direction.

The young wolf doesn't flinch. "They can kill me if they like." He straightens. "As long as I find my sisters first."

"Then we'd better get going, because I don't know how long your pack leader's going to wait."

* * *

_A/N: I have two different endings for this story and I don't know which I like better. I may end up writing them both. We'll see how it goes!_


	12. Chapter 12

_A/N: Getting close to the end of this one!_

**The Mountain**

Pairing: Maeve/Sinbad  
Rating: M (language, sex, violence)  
Setting: Alternate  
All standard disclaimers apply

* * *

Maeve leads Suni with unerring swiftness to the place she marked, where she finally admitted to herself that she'd lost the scent of the creature that took Sinbad. She has little to lose trusting him—he knows better than to physically attack her, and if he can't pick up the monster's scent, she's no worse off than she would have been without him.

She stops when they reach the marked trees. Her old tracks wading through the snow are clear, zigzagging haphazardly as she tried to follow the wind.

"This where you lost it?" Suni looks at the patches of bare wood where she scraped bark from the trees. He examines her erratic trail. "I smell you clear enough. Tell me what I'm searching for."

She can't suppress a shudder. "You'll know it if you scent it. It's death and decay. Rotting flesh, and worse. It's...unnatural. The worst thing I've ever smelled."

The young wolf's mouth quirks. "That's saying something, coming from someone who stinks like Fae."

"They smell green to me. Like moss and earth. Old tree stumps and spring rain."

"Why?" Doubar pants as he and Firouz catch up. "What do they smell like to you?" His face glows pink with cold and exertion.

"Not like anything I'd ever want to eat." Suni's mouth curls in a fierce grin, exposing his teeth. They look human enough, but even in this form Maeve knows they're much sharper than any man's, his jaw stronger, capable of cracking bone and tearing sinew. "You, on the other hand…."

"Enough," Maeve says mildly. "The first rule of a fellowship is you can't eat each other."

"Who said anything about fellowship?" Suni's bushy, wolfy eyebrows lower.

"We share a common enemy right now. The enemy of your enemy is your friend."

"I wouldn't go that far." Suni lifts his nose, scenting the air. "No wolf would call something that smells like a sweet little suckling pig a friend." He squares his shoulders. "Stay here."

Doubar frowns. "I...don't know if I should feel insulted or not."

Maeve cracks a smile in spite of herself. She can't help it. She likes the big, burly giant of a man. She regrets that they met under these circumstances, that she'll have to be the one eventually to convince him to stop searching for his lost brother. "When was the last time anyone called you little?"

"Never. Not even as a baby." He chuckles. "I've been compared to a pig before, but not a suckling."

Maeve doesn't doubt it. She watches as Suni methodically searches the area, breathing deeply as he goes. He walks a grid pattern, which surprises her. She didn't know werewolves could be so orderly and systematic. But he's searching with the precision of a practiced Fae scout, back and forth over the same small patch of forest, backtracking along her old trail, then forward again before turning ninety degrees and starting off to the south.

"Do you think he can do it?" Firouz asks, looking somewhat doubtful as he huddles under the hood of his cloak.

"Better than I could. If I couldn't find the scent I'd have just continued in the same general direction. I wouldn't have any other choice. Suni's nose is better."

The werewolf glances their way. His knowing grin stretches his mouth so wide it almost turns to a grimace. "So you admit the wolf is better at something than you?"

"Your pack leader said so, and I have no reason to doubt him." Maeve has no problem admitting this. She knows her own abilities and what she's capable of—at least when her magic doesn't try to burn down half a forest. "I'm only human. The Fae are better trackers than I'll ever be."

"And no Fae can match the wolf," Suni says, turning west and striding parallel to her old tracks.

Maeve watches him move, his body at home on his mountain, heedless of the snow despite his tattered clothes and bare feet. She's never in her life felt the bite of cold weather, but it's strange to see another creature so thoroughly uncaring. She wonders if they feel the cold as little as she does, or if they somehow teach themselves to disregard it.

"Does this shape feel foreign to you?" she finds herself asking. "Do you feel more at home in the body of the wolf?"

Suni pauses in his search. Black eyes watch her, considering. "No one has ever asked in that way before," he says. "This form is...not unfamiliar. We wear it through most of the phases of the moon. But we are happiest when the full moon shines." He looks at his dirty hands, the backs thickly covered with bristly black hair, the nails ragged and broken. "Why? Do you wish to run, swift and silent, under the moon?"

"No," Maeve says automatically, then checks herself. "Not the way you mean. I'm curious, I'll admit. I think anyone would be. But not enough to make that choice. Not enough to submit to a permanent change."

"Isari would not change you, anyway." He drops his hands. "I don't have to ask to know it."

Maeve isn't surprised. Her inner fire calls to the wolves just as surely as it calls to all men, but the pack leader didn't like her and wouldn't want to be stuck with her. A human turned becomes part of the pack, the alpha's responsibility until death. Wolf packs are highly patriarchal and the pack leader has absolute authority. Maeve would not fare well in such a society, even were she curious enough to make that choice.

"Is your human form strange to you, too?" the young wolf asks. "Is that why you ask? You live with the Fae. Do you wish you had their ears, their shine?"

"Their senses, yes. The rest of it, no. I'm perfectly content being me." She regards him as he works. "So you admit I'm human? Your packmates didn't."

He sniffs in her direction. "Human, under the stink of the Fae. But not like them." He nods at the two men flanking her, still breathing heavily from the swift hike through deep snow.

She grins. "No suckling pig?"

"You smell like bee pollen. Soft woodsmoke. Not a demon." A wolfish smile curls one side of his mouth. "That smell is...inviting, and you're lovely. I'd fuck you. If you washed first."

She snorts. "I wouldn't fuck you, even if you did."

"That's no way to talk to a lady," Doubar grumbles, but it's halfhearted at best, whether because of the sleepless night, the cold, or his difficulty with the werewolves' language.

Maeve is used to being propositioned; it comes with her looks, her scent, the effect her inner fire has on men. If she took issue with every male who looked at her with desire, she'd never have time to do anything else. She saves her energy for the idiots who try to touch her without consent, which Suni knows better than to do. She pats Doubar's tall shoulder. "Save your breath. I'm a big girl, I'm used to it."

"Doesn't make it right," he mumbles. He's a sweetheart. Not the sort of man Maeve has ever been interested in, but a good one nonetheless. She regrets that his search for his brother will likely lead to heartache.

Suni shrugs and returns to his task. He roams further back along her old tracks, and after several minutes Maeve hears a startled yelp. Instantly she's moving.

She feared that the rest of the pack might have caught up to them, but when she reaches the young wolf he's alone. He lifts his head cautiously, like a man touching a surface that might be hot, afraid to be burned. He breathes in, then immediately backs away from the scent. "What is that?" he demands. He makes a low, canine noise of protest deep in his throat.

His reaction tells Maeve all she needs to know. He's found it. Nervous exultation fills her. "That," she says, "is what I think took your sisters." It took Sinbad. Tried to take Senna. Probably took Doubar's lost brother.

"It's not right." Suni hesitates like a dog told to come but afraid of the consequences. He wavers, lifting his head to the wind, dropping it again without inhaling. "There's something wrong. It's not...natural."

"I know." Maeve knew there was something wrong with this creature before she ever smelled or saw it. What it did to the doe in the woods told her enough. "It doesn't belong here. I have to stop it."

"You're really going to fight something that smells like that?" Suni has been wary from the beginning but not of her choice to go after the creature. Now she feels doubt blooming in him. He's seen her fight, but he doesn't know if she can win against this thing.

"Not just fight. I'm going to kill it." She has to. There's no alternative. Sinbad is probably dead, but the slight chance that he might not be, that he might have survived, keeps her moving. He's strong—the strongest man she's ever met. Not just bodily, but in spirit, too. If anyone can survive that thing, he can. For the sake of that tiny chance, she has to do this.

The wolf squares his shoulders and lifts his nose once more. He grimaces, and his body stumbles back a pace before he rallies, widening his stance and standing firm. "Can something that smells so wrong even be killed?"

"Anything can be killed."

"If you know how," Firouz says, drawing even with her once more.

"Do you?" Suni's black eyes challenge her.

No. Not really. But she refuses to back down. Sinbad's counting on her. Everyone from Riona to Senna's baby to those lowland humans is counting on her.

"I don't smell anything," Doubar says. His nose and cheeks glow with warmth above his frosty beard.

"Scents don't carry well in colder temperatures. I imagine even our friend here is somewhat compromised." Firouz puts a handful of snow in his mouth.

"I'm not your friend, piglet, and I'm not compromised."

"Don't call him that. Enemy of your enemy, remember?" Maeve stares along their new route through the trees. The creature changed direction, still moving mostly east but now north as well, higher up the mountain. Without Suni's nose she would have been forced to continue on her previous track as the most likely direction it went. She would have lost it entirely.

"Would you prefer _cutlet_? _Pork chop_?"

Suni's sarcasm doesn't bother Maeve, but she's very aware that she's putting the two human men in a precarious position by bringing them along. If she doesn't win this fight, if the creature manages to kill her, they'll be left alone with an angry, hungry werewolf. One that will likely do anything to get back into the good graces of his pack. She wishes she could foster a better sense of fellowship between them all, but this is a losing battle. It isn't even Suni's fault, really. Not when humans are his natural food source and winter's closing in. She just has to make sure she wins the coming battle. Two additional lives depend on it.

Lovely.

"Is suckling pig better than pork chop?" Doubar laughs. At least he seems to have a sense of humor about it all. "Why are you eating snow?"

Firouz swallows a handful. "Thirsty. I never realized how distinctly uncomfortable snow could be."

"I never realized I could sweat and freeze at the same time." Doubar tosses back his hood, his breath steaming in the frigid air.

Maeve eyes them both. "Listen up, boys. I don't know how long it will take to find this creature. I don't know what will happen when we do. I've already told you I don't have time to look after you, don't have time to wait if you fall behind. This is your last chance to get lost."

"With a pack of werewolves chasing us?" Firouz shakes his head under his cloak. "I'll take my chances with this one rather than his five brothers."

"Sorry. You're stuck with us." Doubar checks the motion of his gaudy sword in its sheath, as if he's afraid it might have frozen over. It won't unless he gets it wet, but Maeve doesn't bother correcting him. "I need my little brother."

Part of her wants to ask why he let his younger brother wander up here alone in the first place, but she doesn't have time to stand around and listen to his story and she has no wish to make him feel guiltier than he probably already does. She has to warn him. "He may well be dead. I hate to bear bad news, but you have to know that."

The giant's red face sets, falling into a mask of intractable stubbornness. Maeve knows that look. She wears it often herself. "He's alive. I know it. If anyone can survive out here—well, anyone other than you—he can."

Maeve doubts that. No southerner stands a chance on this mountain even without a demon haunting it; even Sinbad struggled, wholly unprepared for the cold. She's wasting her breath trying to convince Doubar, though, so she stops. He's determined to search for his brother, which she supposes is his right. She can't stop him, in any case. But he and Firouz will have to look after themselves.

"Then keep up," she says, wading forward through the snow. Suni falls in behind her. The feeling of having a werewolf at her back prickles the fine, delicate hairs at the base of her skull. She squashes the instinct. Suni knows better than to fight her, and she's showing him trust by giving him her back.

"What are you going to do when we find the demon?" Firouz pants from the back of the line.

Maeve pushes ahead, forcing her tired legs through nearly knee-deep snow. Breaking their path takes energy and concentration, and she doesn't really have extra of either to contemplate the endgame of this trek. She hedges. She doesn't know what she's going to do, but she isn't about to say so. "Depends on the situation. The terrain. Whether there are any living captives." She bites the inside of her cheek, forcing herself to seriously consider the question. Walking blindly into this battle will probably get her killed, but how can she prepare to face something so unnatural, so unknown?

The obvious answer is fire. It's her special gift, her greatest weapon. She knows the creature fears water, but she only controls one element. Water is nearly as foreign to her as it is to the demon she hunts. Other people might waste time bemoaning that fact, wishing for control over a different element, but she doesn't think that way. Anyway, she doesn't know of any creatures besides dragons that can withstand flames, and even dragons have their limit. Everything in the world fears fire.

Except her.

She's never feared her gift, but as she struggles through the snow, Suni and the two humans at her back, she finds herself wondering whether it's the best choice of weapon. She remembers all too well what happened when, at Sinbad's urging, she tried to track the creature using magic. How it happened she doesn't know, but something inside her exploded and she blew a hole in the forest. The underbrush disappeared, trees charred and burned. She's impervious to flame, but how Sinbad survived she has no idea. It's something she can't let happen again, for many reasons. She could kill Suni or Doubar or Firouz, or any captives the creature might have. She could deplete herself and be unable to defend herself if the creature doesn't die. She could burn the forest down, hypothetically. The threat is too great, the risk too big; she can't let her fire burn so uncontrolled again. But, not knowing what she did to loose it, how can she prevent it?

Except what other weapon does she have? She watched Sinbad fight the creature with his sword. He was clumsy, slowed by the effects of the freezing water on his human body, but even in top shape she doubts he could best the beast. It was bigger than him, strong and swift, with those wicked, talon-like claws. She has no sword with her and even if she did, Sinbad is a better swordfighter than she is. She admits that readily. If he couldn't best the beast with cold steel, she has no hope of doing so.

She has a key, and she could theoretically find the beast, then open a door and demand the aid of Lachlan and his soldiers to fight it. This is a possibility, but she resists. Lachlan was sent to lead the fortification and defense of the clans, and she was sent to stop the disappearances. That makes the creature her problem, not his. She has faith in him and his men, in their ability to defend the queen and her subjects in war, against normal attacks, but this creature isn't normal. It doesn't follow the laws of nature; it's outside the purview of soldiers. Besides, an open door is a weak point in the clan's defenses. If the creature somehow got through it, she'd never forgive herself.

No, summoning Lachlan won't work. This is her fight. She tosses her tangled hair back and sets her jaw. However she does it, she's going to kill this thing. It doesn't belong here, and it can't be allowed to remain. Not when it can't live in peace with the other creatures of the mountain. Predators that hunt for survival are one thing—she'd never attempt to exterminate an area's hunters, even a werewolf pack. This thing kills without eating, and steals people, and has to be stopped.

The day drags on as they struggle through the snow. She's starving again, but they're now beyond the area she's familiar with. She doesn't know where any _óstáin _might be. She should have taken the bag of food with her from the last one, but she was too caught up in her argument with Doubar to think of it. She'll live. She eats snow like Firouz so her stomach has something in it. The heat of her body melts the frozen water instantly.

To her surprise and their credit, Doubar and Firouz do not complain about the pace she sets, the frigid weather, the lack of rest and food. She can hear their rasping, panting breaths behind her, as well as Suni's softer, easier inhalations. This is his mountain, his home, and he's faster than her, physically stronger. He moves to the front in the early afternoon and she lets him take over the task of breaking their trail, willingly stepping behind him. She breathes deeply, unable to smell the demon they track over Suni's wolfy reek, but his nervous energy, the way he lifts his nose to the wind every now and then, tells her he still can.

Snow begins to fall again an hour or two later. Maeve listens to the puffing, panting breaths of the men behind her, very aware of their physical limitations as they trundle doggedly in her wake. She can't provide them shelter tonight, nor does she want to stop. Every moment they waste is another moment delaying her goal. She didn't sleep last night, but neither did they and they'll give out before she does. She can already hear it in Doubar's tired wheeze. She suspects they have food in their packs, but their ability to withstand a frozen night worries her. She'll have to use her fire to keep Firouz warm, and that's energy she doesn't have to spare. She needs it to fight the creature.

As the short winter day on the mountain dies down, Maeve grapples with the decisions she must make. She looks at the trees around her, bare and frozen, skeleton branches reaching for the sky. "Stop," she says finally, though everything in her aches to push onward.

Suni turns, frowning. How much and how often werewolves sleep Maeve doesn't know, but he looks as impatient as she feels. "Why?"

"They need to rest." She nods at the two human men struggling through the snow as best they can. Their faces are bright with exertion, Doubar wet with sweat. That's not good. He'll chill far faster wet than dry.

Suni's frown turns to a scowl. "We can't wait."

Snowflakes turn to rain before they hit Maeve's skin, warmed by the heat of her fire. She blinks water from her eyes. "I can go all night. They can't." She points the men to a spot under a branching cedar tree, its boughs heavy with snow. "Rest under there. It'll keep the worst of the snow off of you."

"Leave the cutlets."

"I thought he decided we were pork chops?" Doubar mutters, kicking drifted snow out of the way and sitting on the bare, wet ground. He groans as his legs release the weight of his body, sticking them out in front of him. "Oh, that aches."

Firouz plops down beside him, digging in his pack. He offers rounds of flat barley bread to everyone.

Suni draws back in disgust. "Are you trying to kill me?"

Maeve accepts the food gladly, though it's both stale and frozen. She eats it anyway. "Bread won't kill you."

"Sitting here might. Or haven't you smelled them yet?" The wolf looks down their very clear trail. Their tracks are slowly filling with snow, but it will be hours yet before they disappear.

"The pack?"

He nods.

She was afraid of that. "Human nose, remember? I can smell you, but not them."

"They're close. Getting closer. They've been following for a while."

Doubar swears. "What do we do?"

"It's your call," Maeve says, giving Suni the choice. "They're your brothers. What do you want to do?"

"What can I do?" He paces restlessly back and forth. "I'm a traitor. They already know that. But I don't want to fight them."

"You're trying to save your sisters," Firouz says. "That seems admirable to me."

"But he's helping me after his alpha declined." Maeve eats the hard, frozen bread, teeth crunching through the tasteless stuff.

"For the sake of his sisters!"

"The reason doesn't matter," Suni says, staring into the gloom of the darkening forest, the trees obscured by falling snow. "We do not disobey."

Except he did. Maeve gathers her strength and checks the movement of her knife in its sheath. She fought the werewolves last night for fun, a way to burn off the rage she felt at losing Sinbad, then losing the demon's scent. She needs to save her energy now. She doesn't want another brawl, but it seems she's going to get one.

"I can't understand those growly fellows much," Doubar says, "but they seemed pretty intent on getting their girls back."

"But siding with bitches over Isari is unforgivable." Suni tosses his head back and freezes. "Quiet!" He whirls, dropping into a fighter's crouch, facing not west, but south.

Maeve tenses. She hears it, too—footsteps, the soft squeaking, crunching sound of snow underfoot. She frowns. She can't smell any wolves except Suni, any humans except the two huddled under the cedar boughs. "Wolves aren't that loud."

"I can't smell anything!" Suni hisses. "Show yourselves!" he barks, doing his best to sound authoritative. His voice cracks.

Poor boy. Maeve pulls her knife and bends her stiff knees, moving beside him. "Steady. With me." If anyone told her a week ago—hell, a day ago—that she'd soon be fighting by the side of a werewolf, she'd have laughed.

"The demon we seek is up ahead, my brothers not here yet. I can't smell what I hear!" Suni sounds scared.

Maeve doesn't blame him. "He said show yourself!" she demands, deepening her voice as much as she can. Doubar has a nice broad chest; she bets he can boom like a deep drum. She has to settle for...at least not sounding like a frightened little girl?

"So sorry. No need to fear." The voice is soft and pleasant. A moment later two men appear out of the swirling snow.

The man in front lowers his hood. He has the darkest skin Maeve has ever seen, darker by far than Sinbad, like the brown ink made from the sepia fish. He inclines his shining bald head to them with regal grace.

"Rongar!" Doubar lurches to his feet, spilling crumbs, arms wide to welcome the newcomers.

"You shouldn't be here," Firouz says, following his larger friend in an instant. "It's too cold. Dim-Dim will freeze!"

The second man pushes forward. He's a tiny, funny little thing, old and wizened, with the sweetest face Maeve has ever seen on a man. He clasps a gleaming silver staff in his hand. "I was needed, my boy," he says, embracing Firouz affectionately. "And I may be again." He accepts a bear hug from the giant. Maeve watches, shoulder to shoulder with Suni, cautious and frowning. Her human companions greet both new men happily, but only the little old one speaks. Rongar remains silent at his side.

"I see you found my contraptions useful," Firouz says, bending to examine their feet. They wear webs of supple bark strips on curved frames lashed to the bottoms of their boots. It looks awkward, but it holds them up on the snow's surface like a snow-hare. "Doubar broke his, so we've been muddling along without."

"These old joints aren't the fastest," the little man says, "but I'd be even slower without your lovely invention." He beams and pats Firouz's shoulder.

"It was nothing, really. Just a thought. I'm glad it's helped. But, as I said, you shouldn't be up here."

"Why can't I smell them?" Suni demands. He rounds on Maeve. "What trickery is this? Are they demons, too?"

"The only demon here is the one we're hunting." She points at the old man with the staff. "But that one is a mage. A conjurer. He's done something to our noses; I can't smell him either." She frowns, almost as angry as the wolf. She doesn't like surprises, she doesn't like being snuck up on, and she doesn't appreciate a mage doing something to her without her consent.

The old man's eyes fall on her. His cheerful, wrinkled face shifts, mouth slackening, bright little eyes growing round as his eyebrows lift almost to the brow of his cream-colored turban. "Bless my dear beating heart."

She tenses further. "What have you done to us? Undo it—now!" She doesn't like the way he's looking at her, as if she's the sun, he a wanderer lost in an endless night, now somehow stumbled onto her light.

"Oh, child. Beautiful child." He leans on his staff and steps toward her, the contraptions on his feet creaking as he walks on the surface of the snow. "I've done nothing to you. Or your friend."

She holds her ground. His feet are knee-height to her, but he's a tiny thing, barely reaching her eyes. He's heavily cloaked, body hidden, but clearly no physical threat. His magic's another matter. "I don't believe you."

"Me, neither," Suni growls.

"My precious, precious child, I'd never dream of harming you."

"I'm not your precious anything," she says flatly. She's no man's anything. Not even Sinbad's.

"No. Of course not. Forgive me." He bows his head to her in apology, but as it rises his eyes snap quickly back to her face. She's used to being ogled. Lust, desire, envy, fear—these are why people stare. These she understands. The reverence in the old man's eyes makes no sense. "I'm not a mage, strictly speaking. I'm a sorcerer, though the distinction means little at the moment. And I haven't done a thing to you, I've done it to myself."

"Done what?" Suni's rough voice drips with suspicion.

"Cloaked myself and Rongar here, so we make little noise and less scent. It seemed the wisest course while wandering werewolf territory." He inclines his head respectfully at the young wolf.

"You knew there were wolves up here?" Doubar demands.

"Very much so, yes. I would have told you if you had waited and listened to me instead of haring off on your own."

Doubar scowls. "He's my brother."

"No one disputes that, my boy. But getting yourself killed won't help. I'm personally very glad to find you alive."

"We wouldn't be," Firouz says quickly, "without Maeve. Ah, Maeve, Suni, this is Master Dim-Dim and our friend Rongar."

"More lowlanders. Just what I need." Suni looks disgusted. Maeve finds herself agreeing. She had no time for two bumbling lowlanders and she definitely doesn't have time for four. Especially this old one. Rongar looks both strong and intelligent, but his companion is aged and small. Firouz is right. Magic or no magic, he shouldn't be here.

"Maeve," the old man says, testing her name on his tongue. His cheerful face crinkles when he smiles. "Thank you. Whatever you did for my boys, thank you."

"She'll have to do it again in another minute." Suni shifts, nostrils flaring. "Isari's almost here."

"Not again." Doubar draws his sword and strides through the snow, planting himself firmly in front of the old man.

"You're with me. They can't harm you." Even as she says it, Maeve wonders. Her strength won't falter, but the appearance of two more humans shifts the balance of power in the wolves' favor. She's claimed Doubar and Firouz, placed them under her protection. Not their companions. The pack will want them.

"Brace yourself." Suni straightens. He's not big for a werewolf, a young stalk still growing into his frame. He has his full height but not his breadth, not the bulky muscle he'll acquire as he matures. Still he throws back his shoulders and lifts his chin, standing proudly as the pack melts into view.

The leader stalks through the snow directly in their tracks, the trail Maeve and Suni worked to break. He's silent, but Maeve can smell them, proving Dim-Dim right. He hasn't damaged her senses, only cloaked himself for protection. Her suspicion toward him eases.

The wolves wear snow and ice in their black beards and matted hair. They arrange themselves around their alpha with slow, purposeful movements. Maeve stands at Suni's shoulder, knife in hand, waiting for his direction. These are his brothers. He gets to lead.

"So here he finally is," the pack leader says, ignoring her for the moment, intent on his wayward brother. "The traitor."

"I'm not." The young wolf's voice doesn't crack. He stands steady, though Maeve can smell his rising anxiety.

"How not?" Isari looks carefully at the clustered humans, slowly, one at a time. His black eyes land last on Maeve. "I said we would not deal with this bitch." He eyes her with disfavor. "Yet here you are."

"Not all this growling again," Doubar groans.

"Easy, big guy. They're not here for you." Maeve remains at Suni's side. "Call him a traitor if you will. He's the only wolf I've ever met with any backbone."

"Keep out of this, bitch," the alpha snaps. "It doesn't concern you."

"Fuck you!" she spits. She's really getting tired of being called a bitch, even by wolves. "All you do is whine about your women being stolen. This boy is actually trying to save his sisters."

The pack leader snarls. His frame tenses; he's going to leap for her in another moment.

Maeve holds up her hand, fire rippling along her palm. "Don't. It won't end well for you."

Dim-Dim sucks in a deep breath. She can feel the strange little man's bright eyes on her.

Isari forces the threatened attack in his limbs to dissolve, though the tension remains. "Hellspawn! Devil bitch! You claimed the two trespassers, but you have no right to my miscreant!"

"I've no right to him and I do not claim him. He made his own choice. A braver one than yours, by far. You want to sulk and complain, go ahead. That's your right. But don't stand in my way while you do it."

"Isari," Suni says, "listen to me."

"Silence, traitor!" The pack leader's eyes burn with fury. "I said we would not deal, yet here you are. And the human trespassers have multiplied. You're apparently not hungry. We are." He eyes Rongar with undisguised appetite.

"Your pardon, alpha," Dim-Dim says, stepping forward. "We never meant to trespass. We're seeking one of our number who went missing. That's all."

"I have heard," Isari says, favoring Doubar and Firouz with a dark look. "And I don't care."

"Can't you smell that?" Suni demands, jerking his chin at the wind. "Can't you smell what we've been following all fucking day? You wanted proof of a demon before—there's your proof, right in front of you! Something is here. Something that shouldn't be."

"I see five things in front of me that shouldn't be here," Isari says, but even as he argues the other wolves lift their noses to the wind.

One wolf ducks swiftly away from the scent, a strange snorting, choking sound leaving his throat. "What on earth is that?"

"Something that shouldn't be on earth." Maeve watches them with caution, her knife never leaving her hand.

"There's a carcass up ahead. That's all," Isari insists.

"A carcass won't rot in this weather. You know better." Suni takes a slow, measured step toward his angry alpha. He's brave; in his position Maeve wouldn't.

"I've never smelled a carcass like that," another wolf says, doubt lacing his tone.

"Silence!" Isari barks, whirling on his subordinate. The man instantly cowers, shoulders rising toward his ears, head ducked low as he cringes back, accepting the rebuke.

"Isari. There's something here. Something wrong." Suni is young, little more than a boy. But he stands firm as he defies his pack leader, adamant in his desire to find his sisters. For his sake, Maeve hopes they're still alive. That they'll soon know what their brother risked to get them back. She has no siblings, no family, and though she has close friends, the pull of blood is foreign to her. She's never felt so tightly bonded to anyone that she'd risk what Suni's risking to get them back.

Except Sinbad.

The thought comes without her control, and the way it feels, the certainty of it, the conviction, rattles her. Her head jerks slightly, startling. She loves him—she's admitted that much to herself already. This feeling, though; it's deep. All-consuming. Her fire flares hotter, but not with anger. The men around her shift, uncomfortable; she clamps her flame ruthlessly down. Dim-Dim's watching her again.

She's not really mad at Sinbad anymore. She has no time or energy to spare keeping that anger burning. He's not hers and he won't stay, but that was always the deal. He never lied to her, never tried to pretend this was anything but a brief dalliance. If he still lives, and she manages to free him, he'll return to the lowlands, to his ship and his waiting crew. She'll return to the west, to Aven or Eire, to have her child. She won't tell him; it's for the best. The last thing she wants is for him to feel like she's trying to tie him down.

Dim-Dim draws breath to speak, but she shifts her body away, giving him her shoulder, her full attention returning to the wolves in front of her, where it always should have stayed. Isari's still a threat. Not to her, perhaps, but to Suni, and she needs his nose.

"Maybe this thing took my littermates. Maybe it didn't. Either way, it's on our mountain. Your territory. It shouldn't be." Suni struggles to reason with the older wolf. Isari is proud and obstinate; there's much at stake for him. If he appears soft, he'll lose his place as alpha. The lead wolf only leads so long as he can stave off challenges from his subordinates.

"She shouldn't be in my territory either," the older wolf growls. He's so close Maeve can smell not just the werewolf stink of him but his unwashed male body, too, old sweat and greasy hair. Black eyes burn with resentment.

"She can kill it."

"So she says."

"You say I'm a demon." Maeve holds out a cupped hand and lets a small flame light in her palm. It feels warm, soft, the heat feathering across her skin like the kiss of a lover. "What better to kill a demon than another?"

"She's no demon," Dim-Dim says quietly. "Far, far from it. Is that what you fear, alpha?"

It isn't. Not even remotely. Maeve knows better. Isari fears losing his grip on his pack. Any action that might make him appear weak won't be tolerated. He has to quell Suni's rebellion to keep the others in line.

Taking a chance, she steps forward. He reeks, and she doesn't want to get any closer. But she brings her body near, nearer, within inches of the wolf's. He can feel her heat, she knows he can, the bodily warmth all creatures crave and the inner fire men can't resist. She's tall; he's taller. She lifts her chin, watching him. "What will you do, alpha?" Her voice is quiet, soft as the snow falling around them. The other wolves probably can hear her; she doubts the human men can. "There's something lurking in your forest. On your mountain. It took your women. Your brothers." Snow clings to him as it falls; it turns to rain before it hits her, wetting her through. "You have a choice to make. You can defend your territory and your pack. Or you can kill this pup and turn your back on the rest."

"Or I could kill you," he breathes. He wants to. He badly wants to. She can see it in his angry, sullen eyes. She's disrupted his world, spit on his authority. He wants her dead.

"You could try. You won't win."

He knows it, too. If he thought he had a chance, he'd be at her throat. But he wears the blistered burns of their last encounter still, and the pain of them holds him back. Werewolves function on instinct, and all his instincts tell him the same thing: she's deadly. He will not win.

"We take you to this...thing," he says finally, his furious, quiet words dripping into the darkness like hot blood into snow. "You kill it. Then you go. I want you off my mountain."

"Your mountain is the last place in the world I want to be."

Black eyes flick to the side, burning as they find Suni. "I don't want to hear a word out of you."

The young wolf presses his lips together, biting back what he wants to say. What will happen to him once this journey is over, Maeve doesn't know. His alpha may yet decide to tear out his throat for his disobedience. Maeve struggles to accept this. They're not human, nor Fae, and do not operate by the rules she's used to. Suni made his choice, and he seems willing to accept the consequences. It's not her place to intervene.

"Are you coming?" She eyes Doubar. She'd rather they didn't, especially now that they are four.

"What happened?" The giant scowls. "I told you I can't understand those growls."

"They're coming along."

"You can't be serious."

Maeve has no time to argue about this. "I think you should stay. Rest. Go back down the mountain in the morning."

The big man's eyebrows lower. "Not gonna happen, sweetheart."

"Call me that again and die." She's not sweet, and her heart, through no fault of her own, belongs to a man who doesn't want it. Her eyes turn to the other human men. Firouz left the lowlands with Doubar and likely won't budge from his friend's side. Silent Rongar seems to be protection for the little old sorcerer. She regards Dim-Dim with misgiving. "You need to turn back."

The old man smiles. "Thank you for the concern, my dear, but I may be needed again. I can't leave this task half-done."

"He's dead. You know that, right?" Saying this so baldly in front of Doubar pricks her conscience; she doesn't want to hurt the sweet man. But they have to know. "How many more lives will you risk searching for his bones?"

"He's not dead." The old man's voice is calm. "The future is murky and always in flux, but this isn't his time."

"Many men die before their time."

"Not men like him."

She gives up. They're wasting time. "Don't lag behind. If you do, you'll dig your own graves."

"They won't have to," Isari says, a baleful smile touching his thin lips. "We are hungry."

She's weary beyond words of this argument, of keeping natural predator and prey from each other. "Find yourself a warren of rabbits. A deer. I don't care what, but stop the fighting!"

"No one is fighting." Isari casts a hungry glance at Doubar's bulk. "Yet."

What else can she do? She presses her mouth closed, hard and unhappy. "Suni?"

"That way." He jerks his head up the mountain.

They go.

* * *

"Don't move. Breathe shallow, up in your chest." Rolly hovers over him.

Sinbad coughs. Ragged pain consumes him.

"Easy. Shallow breaths, remember." Light fingers seek his wounds. Though the touch is gentle, he can't help a bark of pain.

Sinbad made it through the work shift by pure stubbornness, an unyielding streak that refused to quit. He didn't actually accomplish much, his body too weak, body too shaky to put any muscle behind his pickaxe. Truthfully, he probably wouldn't have tried very hard even if he could. He has no idea what the little side chambers full of tiny nooks are for, but nothing these demons want can be good. The men around him ignored him for the most part, but they did cluster around him when their guard approached, shielding him from view. It lent him heart. These men may be broken, but they're not wholly dead inside. Not yet.

"You've torn out some stitches." Rolly frowns.

Yes, Sinbad can feel that. Something sticky covers his abdomen, whether pus, blood, or both, he doesn't know. He doesn't want to know. Tetsu and Rolly all but carried him back to their cell after the work shift. He rests on the freezing stone floor, his ripped jacket folded under his head, trying not to move. He pants lightly, breathing high in his chest, his throat. Moving his gut hurts too much.

"Tetsu, he can't come with us tonight."

"The hell I can't," Sinbad groans.

"Do you want to die down here? Is that what you're aiming for?" Rolly demands. "I'm not a healer! I'm a scout. I know enough to patch you up, but you need more than that now. Can't you feel it?"

He can. The wound-sickness isn't just in his belly. Its poison is in his blood, slowly seeping through the rest of his body. At this point he doesn't know if even Firouz could cure him, but he refuses to give up. "I won't die down here in the darkness, penned like an animal! I refuse!" He's wet through and can't stop sweating though he's fucking freezing. He hates this gods-be-damned mountain, the darkness, the cold. With every fiber of his being he hates the creatures that put him here, and he refuses to die like this, refuses to let them win.

"If you keep pushing, you'll only die faster," Rolly says flatly.

"If I give up, I might as well die now!"

"I know, brother." Tetsu places a gentle hand on his shoulder. His voice is quiet, his dark eyes solemn as he watches his struggling friend. "You are a warrior, and warriors do not give up. But consider. Maybe the fight you need to wage is not the one you think."

Sinbad closes his eyes, concentrating on his breaths, the cold air icy and sharp in his throat. "I don't need your philosophical double-talk right now. I just need a minute. Food. Then we can try again to find an escape." Their captors should be bringing their meal soon. He has no stomach for food and isn't sure he can keep the rancid barley down, but they can't pick the lock until their captors come and go. His head swims with exhaustion, but he can also feel the rising tide of fever, thick and cottony, confusion threatening to engulf him. He has to fight, has to get out of here before he's too sick to do so. This wound will kill him, he's now all but convinced, but he wants to see the sky before it does. "I need to fight these demons! I need to get out of here!"

A human man turns his head wearily, dull eyes looking at their little clustered group. "You'll never get out of here. None of us will, but especially not you."

"Close your ears to despair, Sinbad," Tetsu says, quiet but resolute.

"What's despair? I speak facts," the lowlander says. He sits huddled with the other men on the floor, hunched over, waiting only for food before they try to ease their bodily pain with sleep. "He'll be dead by morning. They'll take his corpse and crunch his bones." He closes weary eyes.

"You wouldn't sit there and so willingly surrender if you saw what we saw last night," Rolly snaps. He pulls at the hem of Sinbad's shirt with his filthy, cracked nails until he pries the end of a thread loose, carefully unraveling the tight weave.

A Fae man opens his eyes. "You got out?"

"Didn't you see them?" the lowlander grunts. "I expected them to get caught."

"We got out this door, aye," Tetsu says, watching Rolly's careful, deft fingers. "We didn't find the exit from the mountain."

"Yet." Sinbad closes his eyes when Rolly produces an ivory needle from the hem of his sleeve. He doesn't want to watch this part, doesn't want to see how bad the damage to his gut really is.

"Yet," Tetsu agrees.

Sinbad feels Rolly's fingers, the pinching tug as he holds ragged edges of skin together. He barely feels the needle.

"But we found the women." Rolly's eyes never leave his work, but the anger in his voice tells Sinbad he hasn't yet recovered from last night's discovery.

More eyes open. The men shift, looking doubtfully at each other. "There are no women. Not down here."

"There is a matching cell full of them. But one less after last night." Tetsu glances at Rolly's steady hands. His expertly schooled face tells Sinbad nothing.

"Lies." The lowlander shakes his head.

"What possible reason does he have to lie to you?" Sinbad jerks slightly as Rolly punches another hole through his skin. He felt that one.

"They're being kept deeper, further down in the mountain. Nearer the worksite." He ties a deft knot. "Show them, Tetsu. My hands are busy."

"You're wasting your time sewing up a corpse," the lowlander says, but he watches along with the other men as Tetsu grabs a torch from the wall. He brings it near, using greasy soot and his finger to sketch a rough map of the tunnels on the floor.

"This is what we've found. Our work site is here." He points. "About here is where the tunnel branches off. The women are down there."

"I thought they were eating them," a man says, frowning.

"They are." Rolly's hands shake with the force of his repressed anger; he pauses his task, breathing deeply. "But not right away."

Tetsu touches his shoulder in commiseration. They'll carry the horror of the past night to their graves. How much worse it is for the women themselves, Sinbad can't begin to guess. "They're using the women to carry and birth their seed. We saw it for ourselves. The girls do not survive."

"Impossible!" The lowlander is angry now—not at their captors, but at Tetsu for suggesting such a thing. "No woman could carry the seed of those...those _things!_ I'd sooner believe a goat birthed a snake!"

"I don't know how it happens. I don't want to know. I just know what we saw."

"I believe no word of a heathen foreigner! Maybe this happens where you come from, but not here."

"Enough!" Rolly surges to his feet. Sinbad struggles to follow, but his body won't obey. Tetsu puts a firm hand to his chest, pushing him back down. "Tetsu and Sinbad were sent here by one of your mayors to stop these beasts! They came to help. They didn't have to. If you don't want to believe us, fine. Don't. But this enemy is too dangerous to waste energy fighting among ourselves. Those demons don't care if we're human or Fae, local or foreign. To them, we're all beasts. We dig their hive. Our women bear their young. When we're no longer of use to them, we become their food. All of us."

The men exchange tired, wary glances, but no one argues further.

"What will you do tonight?" a Fae man asks finally.

Rolly settles back to the floor and picks up his needle. Sinbad braces himself once more.

"Look for weapons, and an exit," Tetsu says. "Those women are helpless, but we can't free them until we know where to go."

The Fae man holds out his hand to the ronin. "Tovar. From Taranis's clan. Your southerner can't go with you tonight. But I will."

"I can go," Sinbad insists.

"If you collapse in the tunnels you put us all in greater danger." Tetsu watches him. He understands, but he's not backing down. "Sleep while you can. I swear, we will not leave this mountain without you."

Sinbad fights it. He struggles against the command to rest with everything he has. But Tetsu is right, no matter how much his spirit hates it. He can't put the rest of them in more danger. He leans back on his folded jacket and desists, too tired to argue with the man any longer.


	13. Chapter 13

_Fun fact: In English, we say "redhead" and not "orangehead" because our concept of orange is very recent, historically speaking. We didn't have a word for the color before we had imported oranges in England - in English, the color is named after the fruit, not the other way around. Before that, orange hues were just considered another gradation of yellow or red. Thus: redhead. _

**The Mountain**

Pairing: Maeve/Sinbad  
Rating: M (language, sex, violence)  
Setting: Alternate  
All standard disclaimers apply

* * *

As it turns out, Sinbad gets his way. He usually does. He refuses to let the wounds inflicted by these demons stop him, even as he feels infection spreading through him. This is his fight. Tetsu can go on all he likes about picking the right battles; Sinbad has already chosen. These creatures wounded him, and worse, parted him from Maeve. He managed to keep them from taking her, but only by sacrificing himself. He's insistent that they pay.

Tovar and a tall lowland human, Harutyun, agree to help their escape attempt, but Harutyun, like most of the men, is suspicious of the claim that a group of women is trapped in the mountain. He wants to see for himself.

"Rolly and I can't split up. No one should wander those tunnels alone," Tetsu objects.

"I'll take them." Sinbad pulls himself to a sitting position against the wall. It hurts, but everything hurts right now. They have to do this before he's too far gone to move. "I can do that much."

"You can not," Rolly insists.

Tetsu's conflict shows despite his well-trained mask. He doesn't want to let Sinbad go, but it's not his place to force his friend to stay behind. "You _should_ not," he says, not as resolute as Rolly's demand.

"I can. I will." Sinbad managed to swallow some of his meal without bringing it back up, forcing his belly to accept the rancid grain, to keep it down. He's past hunger, past fatigue, but he's afraid retching up his food will snap his stitches again. He uses the wall to pull himself upright, something he's never had to do before. Tovar steps beside him, offering a shoulder.

"We'll take care of him," the Fae man says. "Between his knowledge and the map you drew, we can find the women."

"If they're there to find," Harutyun grunts.

Tetsu relents. Rolly looks furious, but he presses his mouth firmly closed and says nothing. They're wasting time arguing, time Sinbad doesn't have.

"Go, then," Tetsu says. "Check on the women. Their leader's name is Zara. I believe she's of your clan."

"Aye." Tovar's eyes light with recognition. "She's a canny one. I'm surprised she got caught."

"Being caught by these creatures is no shame. Look at us." Sinbad's mouth twists in a mirthless smirk.

"If you have the strength, see if you can discover anything else, especially what they've done with our weapons. Rolly and I will go the other way and search for the exit."

Sinbad's legs are tired, but his abdomen is the real problem. He never realized how much his gut muscles work to keep him upright. Torn and wound-sick, pushed past endurance, they quiver and threaten to give way with each step. He fights on. He will not fail. Tovar walks in front of him, Harutyun behind, each holding an end of his _hijam_. They're close enough that he can grab a shoulder if he begins to fall, but he desperately doesn't want to. Tetsu is one thing—the ronin is the next thing to kin to him. He doesn't know these men, and Harutyun, at least, still doubts his honesty. His head swims, threatening to fog with fever, but he presses on, one silent, unseeing step at a time. He's doing this for Maeve. For Zara. The wolf-girl and all the other women trapped deep in the mountain. For the men waiting back in their cell. But mostly for Maeve. He knows without a doubt that she's doing everything she can to find him. He has to do what he can to help before his body gives out.

He counts paces as they walk, each step deliberate and slow, feeling his way along the black, silent tunnel. "This way," he whispers into the chill darkness when they reach the branching tunnel.

"We're headed down," Harutyun objects as the tunnel slants.

"Aye. They're deeper in the mountain." Further from the exit than the men, he expects. These demons need women to bear their young more than they need men to dig their hive. It makes sense that they would keep them deeper, further in. Better guarded, less likely to escape.

He counts their paces, supporting himself with a heavy hand on the rough stone wall. As the count of their paces rises, Tovar inhales deeply.

"I can smell them."

Harutyun jerks behind Sinbad; the resulting tug on his _hijam_ almost brings him down. "The demons?"

"No." Tovar breathes again. "Women."

The human man grunts softly. "Don't scare me like that!"

"I smell blood, too."

Sinbad stills. "Fresh?" None of the surviving women looked near labor, but what does he know? He's a man, and a man without children at that.

"No. Old. But a lot of it." Tovar sounds sick.

"Be glad you weren't with us last night." Sinbad steps forward once more, gently pushing Tovar in front of him with the weight of his body. They need to keep moving. He's afraid if he stops he won't be able to start again.

"The other foreigner said you saw a woman birth one of those things. Those creatures." Harutyun's breath gusts cold and sour against the back of Sinbad's neck.

"She didn't birth it. It tore its way out with those horns." Sinbad's jaw clamps tight. He doesn't want to remember. "She wasn't its mother. She was its host."

"It killed her."

"I don't know if the juvenile technically killed her or the adults, but what it did to her she wouldn't have survived." Zara said so, but she didn't have to. Sinbad could see that perfectly well. Not even Firouz could have saved her once her belly ruptured, the thing inside her tearing its way free.

Harutyun's tense, sour breaths speak his unhappiness plainly. He doesn't want to believe it. He was happier not knowing. But he's here, in the tunnels, willing to risk his life to see for himself. That has to mean something, and Sinbad refuses to disregard it.

"I have no children of my own, and even I know what I saw last night was...beyond wrong. A violation. A perversion. Rolly has a wife and a young daughter. He nearly went insane."

"My wife is dead, my sons nearly grown," Harutyun says. "It's been a long time since I held an infant. But I don't need to be a father to know that, if what you say is true, this can't continue. It must be stopped."

"Capturing men to slave is one thing," Tovar agrees. "Devouring the exhausted, the sick—that's a step beyond. But this is past bearing."

The freezing rock under Sinbad's fingers turns to rough wood. He stops, tugging gently on his _hijam_ to halt Tovar. "Here."

The Fae man exhales shakily. "Too much blood. The very rocks weep it."

They will for years. Centuries, perhaps. Legends will sprout about a dark presence in these caves, an evil force lurking in the deep. Sinbad doesn't have to be a fortune-teller to know it. This is how myths are born. He fumbles for the key hanging beside the door. Reaching for it strains his stitches and his body falters, but he manages. He slots the key into the lock and turns it with an ungodly screech.

"Careful, man! You'll have the whole host of demons down on us!" Tovar hisses.

"Do you have any grease with you? Because I don't. Help me lift the latch."

Weak torchlight spills through the door as it creaks open. They enter slowly, steps cautious, blinking in the dim firelight. Sinbad's sight returns with the light, his eyes watering even with so little illumination. Tovar looks as sick as he sounds.

The huddle of women on the rocky floor shifts as they enter. It tenses, waiting for the intruders to appear, but unlike last time the captives do not break for the walls, seeking protection. They've been visited by men once before, and they know Sinbad's face.

Zara rises. "Sinbad." She takes two quick steps toward him, but her welcoming face fades quickly to a frown. "You don't look well."

"I'm not." He leans heavily against the rocky wall next to the door.

"Sit," she says, pushing firmly on his shoulder.

He brushes her off gently. "I'll live." He's afraid that if he sits, he won't be able to get back up. He locks his knees and breathes deeply, trying not to look at the dark, rust-colored stain on the floor. "I've brought friends."

"Zara." Tovar steps forward swiftly. He bows his head with a courteous sweep.

She's having none of it. A delighted little cry leaves her mouth and she darts forward, tossing her arms around him and squeezing tightly. "You rat! You beautiful rat! We thought you were dead!"

"Believe me, so did I. Many times over." He groans under the strength of her arms. "That's a hell of a greeting."

Sinbad doesn't bother to hide his amused smirk, but pain that has nothing to do with his torn gut lances through him even so. He wants his own fierce, brave woman, wants her to pounce on him with that same joyful, exultant ferocity. His body can't take it right now, but he doesn't care. He still wants her. Maeve is everything, absolutely everything, and with each minute that passes he feels less and less like he's going to live to see her again. One touch. One kiss. One breath of fresh, living air. That's all he asks. Then he can die content.

Zara's practically wringing Tovar's neck, scolding him happily, and he takes it all joyfully. She's not his wife, not his lover—the body language is wrong for that—but she's blissfully happy to see a familiar face, and Tovar looks the same. Sinbad's glad he could give them this. Zara's done well, but she's shouldered the burden of leadership alone for too long. She needs some help. The men neither needed nor wanted a leader, fumbling along exhausted, their wills to do anything but acquiesce dying out one by one under the heavy burden of backbreaking labor and oppressive darkness, the constant cold, the threat of a terrible death if they disobeyed. They drew into themselves, each man an island of his own misery, his own making. The women have done the opposite, forming a tribe, reaching out to their fellow captives for strength and support. Whether that shows a fundamental difference between men and women or merely a difference in the form of their captivity and torture, Sinbad doesn't know. At the moment, he doesn't care.

"Harutyun? Harutyun the miller?" A human woman, one of the most visibly pregnant, steps hesitantly from the group. Two others follow.

He greets them swiftly, touching their cold hands, their dirty cheeks. They press close. In their former lives they were perhaps neighbors or acquaintances. Here, that tenuous bond means so much more. Harutyun's head turns to Sinbad. He does nothing to hide the tears in his eyes. "I didn't quite believe you, or your friend. I'm sorry."

Sinbad shakes his head, and a wave of dizziness passes over his eyes. Oh, that's not a good idea. "There's no need. You didn't know they were here."

"And I never would have. Not without you." His rough arms touch dirty bodies, letting them huddle near. It's not correct, not mannerly, but everyone down here is starved for familiar faces, for contact and comfort, the presence of their people. The men cluster together for warmth when they sleep, but there's no emotion to it. Sinbad has no idea if the women feel any differently. He aches with loneliness, too, but this is a hurt the captive women cannot ease. This mountain is not his home, these people not his people. He thanks the gods for Tetsu, the only familiar face in this black, freezing hell.

The wolf-girl approaches him, frowning. Does he know her name? He can't remember. The thick, cottony fog of fever slows his mind even as he struggles against it.

The girl sniffs, her nostrils flaring as she scents him. "You're not long for this world," she says flatly.

"I know it." He can feel the wound-sickness, the poison in his blood. He's not really surprised that she can smell it. Rolly knew it was there without looking.

"A deer or bear so sick would be down by now."

"I have a promise to keep." To Maeve. To Odhran. To the lowlanders who paid him. To his brother and crew.

"Is it time, then?" Zara glances at him, then the cluster of her charges standing near, waiting for news. Many of them are visibly pregnant, a tangible reminder of how dire this situation, how much is riding on Sinbad and Maeve. He can't fail them.

But he also can't lie. "Not yet." He hates saying it. With everything he is, he hates saying it. "The demons put us to work, digging. We weren't able to get away. Rolly and Tetsu are searching for the exit now, and we're looking for the weapons the demons took from us."

"Sit, Sinbad," Zara repeats. She looks grave. "You aren't well. Take a moment. What's wrong?"

He refuses to sit, but he pulls down the top of his red _hijam_ and eases open the flaps of his shirt. He doesn't want to see, but it doesn't bother him if Zara wants to.

The wolf-girl hisses. "That looks like claws. Sharp ones. Did one of my brothers do that?"

"No. One of the demons. I was with the firestarter. Let myself get caught so she could get away." He's gone over this a hundred times in his head and he still can't think of any better solution. Maeve was in no shape to fight the demon or successfully outrun it, and he couldn't survive in the frozen lake. He adjusts his clothes again, wrapping the red fabric tighter around his belly. It feels slightly better that way, lending him a little support his muscles just can't give. "She's stronger than me. It's better that she's out there and I'm in here."

Zara's eyes gleam. "You didn't tell me you'd seen her."

"How else would a human know what she is?" A small smile touches the corners of his mouth. His girl. He knew she was special the moment he saw her, though he didn't know just how thoroughly she would change his world.

"I know nothing of this firestarter," the wolf-girl says.

"But I do." Zara squeezes Tovar's hand. "She belongs to the Fae queen. Her greatest weapon. If anyone can find us and stop these demons, she can."

Sinbad doesn't like the reminder that Maeve has sworn an oath of service to a distant ruler, but he brushes his displeasure aside. It doesn't matter anymore. She won't have to choose between them—he's not going to live long enough for that. All he wants now is to see her once more, to feel the sweet warmth of her fire. "And she has an emergency key." At least, he hopes she still does. If it somehow got lost in the forest or lake, these people will have to trek the snowy mountain to get to the healers they so desperately need. Their captors aren't exactly starving them, but what food they get is poor in both quality and quantity, and human and Fae alike are weakened by toil, the women clad only in loose, filthy smocks. He has no idea where they are in relation to any of the Fae clans or human villages, and worries for the life of any captive who has to brave the mountain.

"We will need that key, and the healers it can summon." Zara glances at her girls, her expression beyond troubled. "The demonspawn grow much faster than our young. They push our bodies beyond what we were meant to do."

"You mean they're really—" Harutyun swallows his words. He can see the proof before him, a crowd of exhausted women in rough gray slave smocks, many visibly pregnant. The impotent rage in his eyes, his body, speaks where his words fail. "How can they? How can anything, even a demon, think this is right?"

"I don't think right and wrong enter into it," Tovar says softly. "Not for these monsters."

"Don't they have females of their own? Ones willing to bear their young, ones that won't die doing so?"

Zara and the wolf-girl exchange glances. "We've seen none. I honestly don't think they do."

Sinbad doesn't care. He doesn't care whether this is the only way these demons can reproduce; it's not right. None of these women want what's happening to them. "Will your healers be able to fix this?" He's almost afraid to ask. He knows very little about pregnancy and birth, but he does know that attempts to end an unwanted pregnancy often prove fatal to the woman. He doubts even Firouz would say any differently, though faced with the certainty of death in this case, he'd probably at least try.

"They will. Not with conventional methods; they'll have to use magic. Herbal brews can end an early pregnancy quickly and easily, with minimal risk. But the demonspawn grow too fast and too big for that. Our healers will have to use alternate methods."

"But everyone will survive?" Assuming he can free them in time.

"Aye. Recovery will take some time—even magic can't do everything. But it can kill the spawn and help it disintegrate, allowing it to pass."

That doesn't sound pleasant at all, but anything is better than the death Sinbad witnessed, a woman ripped apart from both the inside and out, then devoured. A rust-red stain on the floor is all that remains—that and her sister, now the lone wolf-girl, bent on revenge. Without asking, Sinbad knows the women will, like the wolf-girl, mourn the sisters and friends lost to these demons, but they won't mourn the dead spawn. He can see it in their eyes, the hard set of their mouths, the glimmer of hot but exhausted fury in their limbs. They hate what's being done to them, hate what their bodies are forced to carry. They won't mourn the loss.

"Will your healers help our girls, too?" Harutyun's voice falters. "Our human physicians can't do what you say yours can. Most probably wouldn't try."

Hundreds of years of bloodshed stand between the two groups, human and Fae. They did not come together to fight these demons when they first came to the mountain. They did not come together to look for outside help, instead summoning heroes from both sides—Sinbad, Tetsu, Lachlan, and Maeve. But they didn't know what was at stake. They didn't know anything.

Zara smiles. "I have already promised this to all of my girls. We suffer the same—we will be healed the same."

Harutyun's eyes close as a wave of relief that looks almost like pain sweeps over his exhausted face. "We owe you a great debt. All of us—all of the villages down at the river. I'll make sure they all know."

"Don't thank us just yet." The Fae woman's smile turns grim. "We're not free."

No, they're not. But Maeve is looking for them, Tetsu and Rolly searching for the exit. Tovar and Harutyun have joined the cause. Everyone is doing their utmost. Sinbad shifts. His muscles ache and standing is getting harder even with the wall to lean on.

"Tetsu and Rolly will find the exit," he says with all the confidence he can muster. He wasn't dizzy before—at least he doesn't think he was—but as he moves his head a wave of vertigo engulfs him.

"We need to go," Tovar says, gripping Zara even as he speaks. "We have weapons to find."

She squeezes him tight one last time, then pulls away. "We'll be waiting. For you, and for the firestarter."

Sinbad doesn't want to leave them. His companions are even more reluctant to lock the captives up again in their cell, but they have no choice. They leave unwillingly, but with more resolve than they entered. They believe Sinbad now, and they'll do everything they can to stop this. The torture and toil exacted on them by their captors dulled them, but Sinbad, Tetsu, and Rolly have rekindled the flame of resistance long since snuffed out.

"What's this firestarter you speak of?" Harutyun murmurs as they continue along the tunnel.

"Count paces," Sinbad whispers. He's trying, he really is, but he's not sure he's accurate at all. His head swims, thick and slow with fever, and he's having more and more difficulty holding onto any one thought for too long. "I haven't been any further in this tunnel. I don't know what we'll find."

"Hopefully weapons, not demons. I'm counting," Tovar breathes. "The queen's firestarter is her greatest weapon."

"I heard. But how can a woman possibly be a weapon?"

"She has a soul of fire." Maeve is one thing, perhaps the only thing, Sinbad can successfully concentrate on. Cold sweat drips from his brow, burning his eyes. He's so cold, but when his fingers touch his face he can feel the unnatural heat of fever. It makes no sense. Shivering hurts like hell, so he tenses his body as best he can and presses on.

"The queen fears nothing with her firestarter by her side. If she sent her to us, that means she takes our disappearances very seriously."

Tovar sounds incredibly pleased. Sinbad just wants Maeve back. Yes, she's a royal bodyguard, a deadly weapon. He's seen it for himself. He respects her magic and loves the blissful warmth of her inner fire, but that's not all she is. Not to him. She's everything. He loves her sharp humor, her keen mind. How she looks people full in the eye and really listens when they speak, something so few people do. He adores that body, and the smoke-sweet taste of her. A full lifetime of her fire couldn't sate him. She's perfect. He's honored that, at least for a little while, she was willing to be his.

"Magic may be the only way to kill these demons," Harutyun says. "I don't know how mere muscle can do it, though I'm happy to try."

"Hush!" In front of Sinbad, Tovar halts. Sinbad bowls into him, Harutyun into his back, sending a bolt of pain through his body. He grips the Fae man's shoulder, struggling to keep upright.

"What do you hear?" Harutyun breathes. Without being asked, he pulls Sinbad's arm over his shoulder, taking some of his weight.

"Not hear. Smell."

Sinbad's stomach drops. The tunnel is black as pitch, but narrow. There's nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. If the demons discover them, they're dead.

"I don't smell anything," Harutyun hisses. "Are you sure?"

"Aye. But it's not...I don't think it's the demons?" Tovar sounds troubled, his words slow and unsure. "It's...sweeter. Still revolting. Rotted plums and offal in midsummer."

Fuck, Sinbad aches for the heat of a summer sun. He won't see it again in this lifetime. "Forward," he says, impatience fueling a desperate sort of recklessness. His body is failing, faltering. He needs to do his part before it gives out completely. "If it's not the demons, let's see what it is."

They inch their way through the thick, oppressive darkness, step by cautious step. Tovar falls back, his light, quick breaths indicating his fear. Sinbad doesn't mind leading. He's dying anyway. If they encounter a demon, he may be able to distract it long enough for the other two to run. He feels his way along the wall, trusting senses other than sight just as Maeve urged him to do. Their first trek through the snow together feels like a lifetime ago.

Suddenly, as he fumbles, the wall disappears. He feels around blindly, following the curve of the stone wall. Another passageway. He reaches with his other arm and his hand slaps cold stone. "I found an opening—a narrow one."

"No door?"

"No door."

Tovar presses up beside Sinbad and cautiously pokes his head through the opening. "That's where the smell's coming from."

"I want to know what it is." Harutyun pushes forward. "I'm sick to death of tippy-toeing around these beasts." He shoulders his way past Sinbad and slips sideways through the opening.

Sinbad follows. They're hooked together by his _hijam_, and even if they weren't he's not about to let a comrade go alone. He may not live to see the sun rise again, to feel fresh air on his skin, but Harutyun and Tovar have a good chance. He keeps his hand on the wall, feeling his way along as he steps through the narrow opening. He can smell the stink now, too—a softer scent, sweeter, as Tovar said. No less repugnant. His hand contacts a divot, and he knows instantly what he's found.

"It's a side chamber filled with little nooks, like we've been digging."

"What the hell for?" Harutyun demands in a whisper.

No one has an answer.

Sinbad's hands feel around blindly. It makes no sense. They're like storage cupboards dug into the sides of the chamber, like those used to house ossuaries in a crypt. The comparison sends a nervous chill down his spine. He pushes the fear ruthlessly away and continues along the wall. His hands find another nook and dip inside.

Something soft touches his fingers. Something warm. He gags down a curse and snatches his hand back.

"What was that?"

"I don't think we're alone in here."

"Gods above, do not say that," Harutyun hisses. "Do not ever say that in the pitch dark!"

"Come here." Sinbad pulls on his _hijam_ to haul the man closer. He fumbles for his hand and places it on the wall. "Feel."

"I don't want to!" But the man does, at least for a moment, before pulling free. "What is that? What the devil is that?"

They can't see. They can't see a damned thing, and they have no way to make a light. They could go back to the women's cell and take a torch from the wall but Sinbad resists. The risk of discovery is too great. He reaches out again.

The nooks are small, several feet long, several feet deep, only a foot or so high. Sinbad lets his fingers graze whatever's inside.

It moves, shifting slightly at his touch. He can't place the texture, leathery but warm. It moves again under his hand. When his fingers touch the knobby, branchlike horns, he knows what it is.

"By the gods," he hisses, "it's their young." Like the thing that ripped its way out of the poor captive girl. He didn't get a good look then and his hands are having difficulty seeing for him now. It's lumpy and shapeless, not at all like the sharp, emaciated demons with their protruding bones.

"Kill it!" Harutyun hisses back. "Kill it, Sinbad!"

"With what?" Sinbad demands. He has no weapon, and he's not sure he can feel any identifying body parts except the horns. "I'm not sure it has a neck to strangle!"

"Drop it to the floor and stomp on it!"

"Don't!" Tovar pulls him roughly away. Sinbad nearly falls, grabbing the man as he struggles to stay upright.

"You didn't see what that thing did to that poor girl!" He wants to push away, but he has no strength. He'll fall if he tries.

"Listen to me. What if it cries out when you try to kill it? What if the demons find it dead before we can find an exit? What then?"

Sinbad forces his body to stop fighting. He hears a low, angry growl from Harutyun and agrees, but Tovar's right. They can't risk discovery. Too many lives hang in the balance.

"I swear, once everyone is safe, I'm going to come back with a torch and the biggest rock I can lift. I'm going to squash all of these things, however many there are, like bugs!" Harutyun snarls.

"I will help you, brother." Tovar grasps him by the shoulder, his other arm propping Sinbad up. "But not now, not yet." His hand shifts. "Sinbad, you're burning up."

"I'm fucking freezing." But he's also bathed in sweat, his body too hurt, too sick to know what to do with itself. It's trying, but it won't be able to fight much longer.

"We need to get you back before your body fails." Tovar pulls him a little higher up on his shoulder.

"We haven't found our weapons." He's not giving up. Not without completing their task. He's fully aware he won't get another chance.

"We found enough. It's the exit we need most, and I don't think we'll find it down here, so deep in the mountain. Maybe Rolly and Tetsu already have. We should go back and see."

"Aye," Harutyun agrees. "We can use the tools if need be; I for one would love to see what a pickaxe can do to a demon. What we need is a way out."

This time, Sinbad lets himself be convinced. He has no strength left to argue anymore, and fever has overtaken his head. Thinking, finding the words to object, is too difficult. He turns slowly, Tovar steady beside him, bearing most of his weight as they stumble blindly, counting paces, back toward their cell. Toward a cluster of men awaiting hope. Tovar and Harutyun are right: what they need most is a way out, and they won't find it here. He only prays Tetsu and Rolly have had better luck.

His friends have not returned by the time he and his companions stumble wearily into their cell and close the door on its shrieking hinges behind themselves. They ease Sinbad down at the edge of the pile of sleeping men, covering him with his thin blanket and wadding his ripped jacket under his head.

"Rest," Tovar whispers. "When they return, we'll tell them what we've found. They may have good news as well."

Is a...a nursery, a creche, of demonspawn good news? Sinbad doesn't know. Honestly, at the moment he doesn't care. All he wants in the world is to see Maeve again before he dies, to feel the touch of open air on his cheek. He yearns for his brother, his mentor, but they're far away, down in the lowlands. He knows he won't see them again in this life. But Maeve is near. He can sense it. If he can see her, touch her, know that the rest of the captives are safe, he can die content. He'll have done what he came here to do, and won the regard of the most amazing woman in the world besides. He closes his eyes. He's intent on waiting for Rolly and Tetsu, forbidding his body to sleep. But he pushed himself too far, forced his failing body to work too hard. All his strength leaves him, and he knows nothing more.

* * *

They walk for a long time through the bleak winter night, the wolves taking turns breaking their trail, seeming as heedless of the cold as Maeve. The human men pant along behind her, uncomplaining but weary. Well, perhaps not Rongar. It's hard to tell under his cloak, but he appears the fittest of the bunch. He speaks no words, but his eyes watch the wolves steadily. He doesn't trust them.

Maeve doesn't either, not really. Isari would kill her if he could, and the others follow him. Even Suni might turn on her, if pushed hard enough. He wants his sisters back, but the pull of his alpha is strong and they have the creature's scent now. Isari could conceivably decide he and his pack can kill it on their own. The blistered burns on his throat and upper chest are all that stop him from mutiny. He knows he and his brothers will not win against her, and he's not willing to risk another defeat. His hold on power may not survive it.

They climb steadily, the trees around them thinning as the soil turns rockier, the wind stronger. It whistles and gusts; the trees shriek and groan.

"That's an unholy noise," Doubar mutters through hard breaths as his body struggles with the climb, the cold, the thin air. "Almost like the shriek of a harpy."

"You've seen harpies?" Maeve turns, walking backward for a few strides to look at him.

"Oh, aye. Had many run-ins with the beasts. I'd love to tell you, if I had the breath."

"But never werewolves before?"

"No." His eyes flick nervously toward their guides. "Fought plenty of demons, too, but none like the one you describe."

She turns back around. On a normal day she'd love to sit with a cup of hot wine or tisane and listen to the sort of tales she suspects Doubar can spin—preferably in front of a roaring fire. But she has a job to do, and she has no idea when or if she'll ever see comforts like a warm hearth and wine again. She walks alone and resolute, between the pack of wolves and the band of human men. This is her life—how it always is for her. She's the only person like her, and so she's alone wherever she goes. She's never felt particularly lonely before, because she didn't know what it was like not to be alone. Now she does. Sinbad gave that to her, and she both loves and hates him for it. She loves him for the memory, the perfect warmth of his body, the intense intimacy of his presence. He touched her heart, maybe even her soul, in ways no one else has ever come close to. How she formed such a strong bond in so short a time she doesn't know. All she knows is that she hates him, too, for the loss of that connection. It's not his fault, not really. Neither of them could possibly have known what would happen when she first touched him. But this grief will linger. She knows it's not his fault, that he couldn't help it anymore than she could, but that doesn't stop the pain.

As they trudge slowly through the snow, Maeve feels herself lulled into a tired, waking trance. Each step is the same, the aching pull of thigh and calf muscles, the unpleasant rub of wet leather on skin. She's been awake through nearly two full nights now, and though she absorbed the energy of Doubar and Firouz's campfire still she feels the long hours of endless, weary trudging. She eats frozen barley bread when Firouz passes it around, the wolves curling their lips in derisive sneers at the humans' idea of food.

But slowly, slowly, as the night marches inexorably toward another dark, frozen morning, Maeve realizes that she knows where she's going. Her head lifts slightly and she frowns. She's never been on this stretch of mountain before, doesn't even know if any clan claims such high, rocky, desolate territory. But something in her feels different. Feels _right_. She stares at the unfamiliar terrain, windblown snow melting in her eyes. No, she's never been here. Never even been close. Still the feeling persists.

She lifts her nose to the gusting wind. She can't smell her quarry. With the buffeting wind and the proximity of the stinking wolves, the creature could be nearby and she'd never scent it. She listens, but hears nothing unusual. The weary groans of the few trees that still dot the steep mountain slope. The panting breaths of her comrades, and the pervasive, overpowering wind. The squeak and crunch of snow underfoot. Her own heartbeat, steady and strong. All as it should be. Scowling, she closes her eyes, trusting her feet to lead her for a few steps without sight, and concentrates her mind within. Her inner fire flickers in response, warm and vibrant, as bright and sure as ever.

Something in her bones knows their course. She focuses on the strange feeling. It's...warm? Soft, like the kiss of fire on her skin, its sweet touch familiar as her own breath.

"What are you doing?" Suni's sharp question disrupts her concentration.

She scowls without opening her eyes. "Shut up. I'm listening."

"To what?"

"I don't know." She has no idea. This feeling is familiar, but she can't place it. Like the memory of a dream, it dances just out of reach. It hums in the marrow of her bones, soft-sweet, like the buzzing vibration of a noise too low for human ears.

A gentle voice sounds at her shoulder. "Stand for a moment. Breathe deeply. Let the rest of the world fall away." It's Dim-Dim.

She cracks open one eye to stare skeptically at the little old man, but pauses her steps. "Can you feel it, too?"

"No." He smiles encouragingly. "But I have every faith that you can. Go ahead. Don't concern yourself with us. Ground yourself and focus."

"We have no time for this!" Suni snaps.

Maeve ignores him. She closes her eyes again, reaching for her inner fire, its energy, the crackling heat that's always been part of her, ever since she was born. She steadies herself in the heart of the flame, pushing away all other thoughts, the smell of the wolves, the howl of the biting wind, concentrating only on the flavor of this new awareness in her bones. It's soft and delicious as a lover. She raises her head slowly, breathing the wind, and suddenly, as her fire filters out the wolves, the mountain, everything else but this new sweet buzz, she smells it. Not the creature they seek, but the sea. Salt brine, the tang of a warmer wind than this mountain ever sees. Her inner fire surges in response, flaring wild, a reaction completely outside her control. Lit sparks sizzle in her hair, and her body gleams bright gold for an instant.

The men around her can't control their reactions, either. The wolves round on her, predatory snarls on their lips, ravenous for her flesh but not her blood. They're brought up short by fear, their animal mistrust of fire, instinct telling them firmly that, while she's an object of desire, she's also not safe. The three younger human men falter, just as uncomfortable but not so bestial in their reactions. Only Dim-Dim, the old sorcerer, remains by her side. His eyes gleam with reverence, but no sexual desire. No fear.

"They're close." She releases her concentration. Sinbad is alive. She can't explain how she knows. She just does. He's alive, and he's near.

"We could have told you that!" Isari growls, furious. "What demon witchery did you pull? There was no need!"

"I didn't do it," she snaps. She's tired of defending herself to every man affected by her fire, tired of having to explain that she has no control over what it does to them. "That's a side effect of my magic; it's not my problem."

"It's true, alpha," Dim-Dim says gently. "Whatever you're feeling, it was not her intent."

She's glad at least someone seems capable of listening to her. "How close are we?"

"Close," Suni says after glancing at his seething alpha. "But we have a problem."

Behind her, Doubar groans. "What now?"

"There's more than one creature."

Maeve isn't surprised. She and Sinbad and even Lachlan considered this possibility before they ever left Odhran's palace. It makes her job harder, yes, but not really any more complicated than it was before. She needs to kill however many of these creatures there are, while minimizing the loss of any other lives. "How many?"

"How should we know that?" Isari glowers. "More than one. More than two. It changes nothing."

"She can't do this alone." Doubar's protest sounds from behind her as the big man stumps closer, stumbling in the snow. "One-on-one with a single demon is bad enough. You can't possibly expect her to take on a whole...a whole pack of them!"

Isari bristles at his choice of words. "Demons do not run in _packs_! And that was the agreement we struck. We track it, she kills it. We have upheld our end of the bargain. She must uphold hers."

"I don't care if there's a swarm of them—a fucking Egyptian plague's worth! I said I'd stop them, and I will." Maeve pushes forward. She knows where she's going now; she doesn't need werewolf noses any longer. The lovely, sweet hum deep inside guides her, gentle and sure. Sinbad is alive. Triumph fills her, along with bright, steely resolve. She's going to rescue him. Fuck him senseless—love him hard and sweet one last time. And then she's going to let him go.

She's striding swiftly but Dim-Dim manages to catch up, using his staff like a walking stick to steady him. He's so little she's afraid the tearing wind of the mountain might snatch him away. A gust catches at his cloak and he almost lifts into the air. She grabs at him, steadying his body, tethering him to the ground. With swift hands she unfastens her leather belt and loops it around his waist, over his cloak, cinching it to his body. It's awkward and looks odd, but at least he won't be blown off the mountain.

"Thank you, my dear." He wipes snow from his cheerful face as they begin walking once more. They dip down a slope into a shallow valley somewhat protected from the fierce winds. More trees grow here, though they remain thin and spindly. "It's been a long time since I climbed any mountains."

"You shouldn't have climbed this one."

"I was needed." He seems to take no offense at her repeated attempts to make him leave. "I'm quite intrigued—would you mind indulging the curiosity of an old man? Why are you here?"

"I was sent by my queen," she says shortly. She has no intention of taking these people to a Fae clan, so she owes them no long explanations. "To stop the disappearances. My companion was taken by the creature, but he's alive. I'm going to get him back."

"Ah." The old man looks at once both satisfied and still infinitely curious. He opens his mouth to speak again, interrupted by the pack leader shoving his way in front of them.

Isari pushes to the front of the pack, unable to stomach being a follower. "The sire of your whelp? How do you know he's alive?"

She scowls at the wolf, but she's already learned that snapping at him to mind his own business does nothing. "I just do." No one else smells like that, like the wild, open sea. No other life-force calls to her so clearly. He's alive. And he's close. She aches to be with him once more.

"You didn't know before," Suni says, just behind her shoulder.

"I do now."

Dim-Dim can clearly understand the wolves, where Doubar and Firouz have trouble following their low, guttural voices, but he lets the subject alone. He breathes deeply, struggling as much as his younger companions in the thin mountain air. Maeve's homeland isn't so high and even she feels the lack, but the wolves seem impervious.

"This will not be an easy fight," the little old sorcerer says eventually.

"I know it." She's known from the beginning. Riona wouldn't send her so far for just any threat.

"I can often sense the future to a certain extent. But I cannot see the outcome of this quest."

She shrugs. She has no interest in fortune-telling. "I can; either they die or we do. Do you want to flip a coin?"

The strange little sorcerer laughs with delight. It's...not the reaction she expected. "You're a feisty one."

"If by feisty you mean demonic," Isari mutters. Maeve ignores him.

"She's no demon, alpha," Dim-Dim says. "Singular, yes. Unique in all the world, perhaps. But no demon."

Maeve's eyes narrow. She turns slowly, staring at the old man. "You know what I am." It comes out accusatory, and she can't help it. She's been wary of the little sorcerer from the start, and she doesn't like the idea that he knows more about her than she potentially does.

"Oh, aye," he says, unperturbed by her suspicion. "Few do, I know, which must be lonely for you." His soft eyes are kind. "I'm sorry for that. I've never met a fire-child before. I am...beyond honored."

"What did you call me?"

"Is that an insult, where you come from?" Doubar asks, panting behind her. "Master Dim-Dim would never intentionally insult anyone."

She glances at the giant. "No. The only redheaded insult we have is 'fire-crotch'." Which, honestly, she takes as a badge of honor, not insult.

The little sorcerer chortles with laughter. "No insult was meant." His expression changes, his wizened little face melting into fascination. "You have no idea what you are, do you?"

Maeve scowls. She knows exactly who she is—what she is. "I'm _me_." Her automatic defensiveness slams into place. "Just me—just human. I don't need to be anything else."

"Oh, child. Beautiful child." He reaches out, gnarled fingers touching the back of her hand lightly. She snatches hers away. "Human, aye. No less than Doubar or myself. But so much more, too. You are a legend."

Maeve doesn't like that. She doesn't like it at all. The way he's looking at her makes her supremely uncomfortable, and she doesn't want anyone thinking of her as legendary or deserving of awe. She's unique, yes, but only by an accident of birth. She never asked for this fire. She's happy to have it, happy that she can be of service, useful to her queen because of her talents. But she wants none of this old man's reverence.

"I don't believe in legends," she says flatly, "so spare me your riddles." She pushes forward. "If you think you're so needed here, you can prove it by giving me suggestions for besting these demons."

"Would that I could," Dim-Dim says regretfully. "I don't know yet what we're fighting. This old human nose can't compare with your friends, and I haven't seen the creatures, only sensed them. They are very powerful. Very hungry. More than that, I'm afraid I can't give you."

"You may in a moment, old man. Hush." Isari lowers his voice to a bare growl as they enter a thick patch of underbrush drooping heavily with snow. "We're close."

"Once we find my brother I am never traveling so far north ever again," Doubar grumbles.

"I said hush! Or must I tear your throat to silence you?"

Doubar hushes.

Maeve leaves the human men, pushing through the wolves to the front of the pack. She has no time for the old man's riddles right now. Sinbad is close—she can smell the sea now if she concentrates, strong and salt-sweet, even over the smell of the pack. She needs him, but freeing him is going to take everything she has. She doesn't need a werewolf's nose or a sorcerer's fortune-telling to tell her that.

She kneels in the snow next to Isari, behind a huge rhododendron caked in snow. Before her, the flatter expanse of the small valley abruptly ends, the mountain rising steeply again from the valley floor. A large boulder partially obscures the mouth of a cave, a jagged black maw opening into the mountain.

She breathes silently, observing the terrain. A small copse of forest surrounds her motley band, obscuring them from view, but there's an open area before the mouth of the cave. Anyone inside will see them the minute they step out of the safety of the underbrush.

Even as they watch, the men and wolves settling close around her, two creatures emerge from the opening. She inhales swiftly, staring. Yes, these are the creatures she saw in the forest, identical to the one that took Sinbad. The wind blows toward her and she can smell the sickening reek of decay, fetid rot and putrescence. Behind her, she hears a startled noise from Dim-Dim.

"Do you know these demons, old man?" She asks without turning, watching the movements of the demons. Seeing them again, smelling that reek, rekindles the anger she felt when they took Sinbad. Her time with him is finite, its ending predetermined and fast approaching. These creatures took him from her, stealing that time, days they could have spent working together, nights they could have spent loving. She won't ever get that precious time back, and it infuriates her. She holds that anger, letting it feed her inner flame. She's going to need every drop of that energy to fight these bastards.

"I know _of_ them," Dim-Dim says, ignoring the rush of her fire, though the others hiss and pull away. She clamps it down—not for their sake, but to keep from alerting the beasts in the clearing. "They are not demons, strictly speaking, but creatures born of desperation. The corporeal manifestations of hunger. The people who first encountered them call them wendigos."

Maeve breathes softly, absorbing his words. She doesn't care what they're called. All she cares about is how to stop them. "Manifestations of hunger? Meaning they can't be satisfied?"

"No."

She rather thought not. "Meaning they can't be stopped?"

"No." The old man's voice holds infinite regret. "I hate to call any creature a blight, but these do not belong here, and their hunger cannot be stopped."

Which is no more than Maeve had assumed. Unnatural creatures like these that cannot be satisfied must be killed. That's her job.

Isari stares at her, dark eyes burning. "There are people here. Many people."

"Alive?" Doubar's tense whisper is raw with hope.

"For now." The lead wolf watches her. "But also blood—the very rocks bleed."

"Humans...Fae…" Suni mutters as he breathes the gusting wind. "Wolf!" His body jerks like a puppet on a string. "Dzieba! Marta!" He shoves forward, lurching to his feet, but his alpha grabs his shoulder, tossing him roughly to the ground.

"Silence, pup! Now is not the time for rash action! You have done far too much of that already."

Maeve doesn't think Suni has acted rashly at all, but she's not about to argue with Isari about it. "I have to stop this." Riona sent her here to free the local clans from the terror stalking their mountain. Now she's found it. Now she needs to act.

"You don't know how many of those wendigos there are! You don't know what you'll find inside!" Doubar protests. "Charging that cave is suicide!"

"For you, maybe." Maeve takes a bracing breath. Under the cold scent of the mountain, the reek of the wolves and the wendigos, she can smell the sea. Sinbad. He's so close. She plants her feet firmly and stands. It's now or never. No amount of planning will change the odds of this fight.

"Breathe and focus." Dim-Dim's bright eyes watch her. "You can do this. You can do anything you've a mind to, fire-child."

She snorts. "Tell that to the forest I exploded."

"Power is not the same thing as skill, which comes with practice and time." The old sorcerer's mouth twitches. "I also suspect your little stowaway may be playing havoc with your magic."

Oh, fucking hell. The last thing she needs right now is another wildcard thrown into the mix by her womb, her irresponsible behavior with Sinbad. Is that really part of the reason for the explosion?

"You have all the power of creation, fire-child," Dim-Dim says softly. "All you could ever need. All you require now is the courage to wield it, the confidence to make it obey. I don't know what happened before, and I am not an expert on fire-children by any means. But fire is not a malleable element. Air is flexible. Water...can be persuaded. Fire is what it is. You cannot force it to be anything else."

She thinks she understands. Normal magic can be put to nearly any purpose, serve any cause, but her fire just doesn't work that way. _She_ doesn't work that way. She is what she is, and so is her magic. Trouble only happens when she tries to change that, tries to force her fire to be something that it's not. She doesn't accept that sort of treatment from others, so why should her magic accept it from her?

"Trust yourself," Dim-Dim says softly. "Trust your power. Believe in it. And let go."

She does.

* * *

_A/N: Updates to The Gift are coming, I promise. But I really want to finish this one since we're so close._


	14. Chapter 14

_This one is short because I couldn't find a better place to break it. Next one almost done, coming soon!_

**The Mountain**

Pairing: Maeve/Sinbad  
Rating: M (language, sex, violence)  
Setting: Alternate  
All standard disclaimers apply

* * *

Reaching deep inside, Maeve banishes all thoughts, all worries and regrets—everything but the familiar, welcoming heat of her fire. She lets her fury at these demons burn through her, lets her longing for Sinbad, her love for him, overtake everything else. She's always kept a tight rein on her fire, controlling it for the sake of those around her. Now she gives it its head and lets it burn.

Power surges through her, searing hot, all-consuming. In an instant she's engulfed. Her body burns away until nothing remains but her soul, her life-force, a flaring wildfire. The wolves cringe and dart back, yelping with their animal fear of fire. Even Firouz and Doubar retreat, slack faces registering their shock. Rongar and the little old sorcerer stand their ground, one solemn, the other awestruck and gleeful.

She has no time for them. All that matters is her task. All that matters is Sinbad. She shifts forward, a moving flame, red-hot, white-hot, terrible in its intensity. In the heat of her flame the snow in the clearing not only melts but vaporizes, thick steam pluming up from the rocky dirt. She hurls herself at the two visible demons.

Their heads turn; they see her coming. They tense for a fight but cannot defend themselves against pure fire. She's on them in an instant, the kiss of her flame consuming them. They screech, the sound ungodly, otherworldly. A heartbeat later they have no throats to scream. The sounds cut off abruptly, echoing back for one last moment from the mountain rocks. Ash drifts, mixing with steam on the wind.

She has no time to think, no time to question her next move. There's no decision to be made. She turns for the cave mouth and slips inside. She has to do this quickly. Dim-Dim may say she has all the power of creation but her soul is still a vessel for that power and she doesn't know how long the vessel will hold. This is way beyond anything she's ever done before, beyond anything she ever dreamed of doing. If the vessel of her soul cracks, she won't survive. She accepts this calmly. If this is the end, it's a good one. She'll go out fighting to save her people, her queen's people. The man she loves.

She can feel Sinbad near, smell the salt-sweet sea. He's a living spark, as wild and untamable as she. But the flame of his life flickers even as she follows it, a sweet beacon guiding her into the mountain. He's not well—injured or ill she doesn't know, but the flavor of that sweet hum, the candle that's drawn her inexorably to him through the snowy wilderness, sputters. It's weak, nearly spent.

No. No, he doesn't get to die now. Not when she's so close, his rescue assured. She presses on, reaching out to him, hoping he can feel her near just as she feels him.

She moves unerringly through the cold tunnels under the mountain, needing no light other than her own flame, scorching the rocky walls black as she passes. She runs up against a rough wooden door. He's just beyond; she can smell the sea as if she stood on the shore. She can feel his presence and the tiny lights of many other people as well, sweet little sparks of life. Sinbad's flickers once more, threatening to go out.

A door is no impediment to fire. Its rough surface smokes and blackens, then bursts into flame when she touches it. Fire is not a malleable element, as Dim-Dim said, but it is physically flexible. She slips easily under the door, a narrow crack a human hand couldn't pass through. Fire can.

In the cavern beyond, men panic. The animal fear of fire shines in their eyes. All creatures fear fire, all creatures except her.

And Sinbad. He struggles to rise, and fails. Fever burns in his gorgeous blue eyes. He's wet through with sweat, thinner than he was just a few days ago, bearded and beyond filthy. She thinks he's the most beautiful thing in the world. He's here. He's alive. She thought for sure that the wendigo killed him, but this man is too strong for that. He survived.

Sinbad reaches for her, fearless in the face of her flame. Desperate yearning fills his eyes. He knows her. She's nothing but flame, but somehow he knows. He can't stand, but he drags himself across the rocky floor. His outstretched arm settles firmly in her fire.

With a jolt she doesn't expect, a sudden snap like the release of a drawn bowstring, she's inside him. Fire licks along his skin, searing him without as she burns within. The jarring tumble of his thoughts, his memories and his emotions, crashes down on her. It's too overwhelming and she almost buckles under the onslaught. She clings tight to the central core of him, a buoy keeping her tethered as the rush of another person's whole being threatens to drown her.

He's sick—very, very sick. She cradles the core of him gently. His soul is still strong, the strongest she's ever sensed. The other little flickers in the cavern are mere sparks. But his body's been pushed to the breaking point, and it's about to give out. She holds his soul as her flame cradles his body. His emotions spill into her, a sea of affection, of loving respect the depth of which shocks her. Men want her for her body, her fire. Never did she dream anyone could feel like this about her.

_I knew you could do it._ His voice sounds inside her own soul, soft with exhaustion, deep with pride.

But does it matter that she found him if he's just going to die? She holds him close, awash in the sensation of being with him once more. It's right. It's...everything. Her fire flares, surging with his proximity. They go together—they just do. Like bonfires on a beach, warm dark nights with stars overhead. Smoke and salt, sand and embers. She loves him too much to let him die now.

She's done trying to force her fire to do things it wasn't meant to do. If she tried now, she'd probably kill them both. But she burns hotter than any fever, stronger than any illness. She holds his soul gently as her fire enters his veins.

He doesn't resist. She doubts he could, but he doesn't even try. He submits willingly to the searing caress of her fire, utterly fearless as her flame engulfs him, inside and out. She strokes him gently, lovingly, letting her thoughts seep free, mixing in the sea of his. He told her he loved her when he left her. She didn't believe him, as she never believes any man who says it. Her fire confuses them, makes them think they feel things they don't. But now she's inside him, and lying is impossible. He lays the truth before her, unafraid, showing her the depth of his love and devotion, as starkly honest now as he's always been with her. He loves her. Wants her to stay. Forever. The intensity of his emotion scares her; his certainty runs as deep as the ocean, as steady as the tides.

_Stay with me._ It's so intimate, hearing his voice deep within, where only her own has ever sounded.

_I can't swim._ Wholly inappropriate if he expects her to learn to sail. But she means more than the physical limitation. She can feel his understanding as his soul wraps around her, enveloping her. It's gentle—not at all frightening. She doesn't know how to swim like this, either, how to let go and trust, to let him buoy and support her even as she does the same for him.

_I'll teach you._ He won't let her drown. He's proven that already. Just as he breathed for her in the lake, feeding her air, his body calming the visceral fear in hers as freezing water surrounded her, he breathes for her now. He'll always breathe for her, if she can bear to let him.

She opens herself slowly, laying bare all she hasn't said, all she can't say. How much she loves him. The ripping desolation of being left alone. The truth about what her body harbors, his seed taken root deep within. Her intention to let him go despite the pain, giving him his freedom.

His caress is sweeter than a kiss, more intimate than sex. He takes it all, every admission, without anger, accepting her as she is, as she'll always be. _Your fire may confuse other men. Not me._

Yes. She can feel that now. He has his own demons and he's certainly not perfect, but he's stronger in spirit than any man she's ever met. He's not confused about who he is or what he wants.

Neither is she. Not anymore. She strokes him gently, the touch of her fire cauterizing the weeping gashes in his abdomen, clearing the sickness from his veins. She's not a healer, but this much she can do.

_I have a job to do._

He knows. She has to finish the task they started together. His mind reveals all he knows, all he's learned while captive underneath the mountain. The layout of the tunnels. The work the men are forced to undertake. The far worse fate of the women, kept deeper in the mountain. He gives her everything, all the knowledge he has. She takes it gently from him, though her anger surges. This can't continue. She has to stop it.

He releases her tenderly, letting her bob to the surface of his being, his ocean. _Come back to me._

How could she do anything else?

Slowly she pulls away. It hurts like nothing she's ever felt before, but the pull of duty forces it. She has others to think of, others to save, and she doesn't know how long she can last.

The door is ash when she returns to the tunnel, flaming brighter with the conviction of Sinbad's love, the anger at what these monsters did to him. He was near death, and she will not stand for it. She burns deeper into the mountain, scorching the rock as she passes. She can feel living sparks further on that tell her more people remain in the mountain, captives of the wendigos. She can also feel the stinking, malevolent presence of the creatures themselves. They have no bright little spark as their captives do. What that means, Maeve doesn't know. All she knows is that it's her job to stop them.

She reaches another door deep, deep in the mountain, the twinkling sparks of souls behind it. At the other door only Sinbad was sick, but here she can feel something deeply wrong with many of the captives. She knows what it is. Sinbad warned her. She slips under the door as easily as a shadow, as sure as the sun.

Female voices cry out as the door holding them prisoner burns. Their male counterparts feared her. These do not. Their voices rise not in fear but in joy. Like Sinbad, they reach for her, unafraid.

Maeve welcomes them. She can feel the malevolent presence inside their bodies, insidious and evil, growing swiftly, sapping their strength, their lives. Her anger flares, her fire roaring bigger, hotter, power flowing through her. Her fury lends her strength, though she can feel her soul tiring swiftly, the vessel weakening under the sheer magnitude of the power she wields.

"Please, firestarter," a captive begs, tears streaking her dirty, gaunt cheeks.

She couldn't refuse, even if she wanted to. Her fury echoes the emotions of the enslaved women, their desperate anger and desire to be rid of the creatures inside them, the creatures that will be their deaths if Maeve doesn't act. She doesn't know what fire can do for them and she knows better than to try to force it, but she welcomes them into the glowing flames, the heart of her light.

And Dim-Dim was right. When she trusts her fire, lets it work instead of trying to force it, it knows what to do. Just as her fire burned the infection from Sinbad's veins, it sears the demonspawn, killing the poison seed, reducing it to a harmless state that will safely pass. She doesn't meld with the women, doesn't become one with them—her relationship with Sinbad remains unique, her ability to enmesh herself with him singular. But she can feel their elation, their profound joy, as the beasts inside them die and disintegrate. Once the remnants pass, they will be free.

"Thank you, firestarter." A Fae woman bows low before her. Maeve wants to tell her not to—she's a vessel for this power, nothing more. The command came from the queen, the power from...elsewhere. The gods, maybe. She's a conduit. A servant. No one to revere.

But she has no body, no lungs to hold breath, no mouth to form words. She caresses the woman's hand, a brief, soft kiss of fire which leaves no wound.

"Zara! Zara!" A male voice sounds from the tunnels. "Are you all right?"

"Rolly?" The woman before Maeve rises. "We're more than all right."

Strong, booted feet kick at the burning planks of the heavy door. It collapses in a shower of sparks and flaming embers. Maeve sweeps through without harm to the two men in her way. They gasp as her flame passes through them, a quick burst of sweet heat where the world is always cold.

"The firestarter," the Fae man murmurs.

Neither man seems in need of aid so Maeve passes, pushing deeper into the mountain.

"We found the exit," a male voice says behind her. "Come!"

She hears the soft sound of the women's bare feet on cold stone, then nothing. She pushes her senses ahead, looking for the wendigos, the creatures that did this. She's simmering with fury, and her fire flares in response, filling the tunnel with heat and light. She can feel the hungry, demanding presence of the creatures now, deep in the heart of the mountain. She can't let any escape. This is her task. Riona sent her. Sinbad needs her. Everyone is depending on her. She can't let them down.

The larval creatures pop and split their skins like sausage casing when her heat hits them. They hiss and scream, but what they did to the unwilling women who bore them was far worse and Maeve has no pity. They crinkle and crisp, leaking black, stinking fluid that leaves a permanent, greasy stain on the rocks. It will be there to see centuries later, if any dare the inside of this mountain ever again. Maeve leaves the larvae charred, smoking husks and sweeps deeper into the mountain.

Here she finally finds the heart of the hive, their living chamber, a large cavern deep, deep in the mountain. Blood stains the floor and walls, spatters of rusty brown that show where and how victims died. Snarls of hair lie here and there, fragments of torn, bloody clothes, and in one corner her flame illuminates a single very human-looking tooth. Nothing more—no bones, no offal. They're obviously consuming the people they capture, but they leave nothing behind. Manifestations of hunger, indeed.

The creatures can smell her, can see her flame. They know she brings death. They scream their defiance and sweep at her with their long, curving talons, which only serves to anger her more. She saw what those claws did to Sinbad. He nearly died of it. That they would dare take him from her, try to keep them apart, feeds her fury. She's fire; she has no body to wound. She burns bright as they swipe ineffectually at her. She's white-hot at her core, alight with rage.

She can't tell the wendigos apart, except for one. Her attention hones in on it. This one bears a wound weeping stinking green-black fluid. Sinbad did that. She watched him do it herself. This is the one that took him away.

Her fire lashes out before she consciously makes the decision, a whip of flame, a hideous kiss that touches and then engulfs the beast. Its scream as it falls, swiftly devoured by fire, is the sweetest sound she's ever heard.

But there are too many here to dispatch one at a time, and there may be more in the sprawling tunnel system. She doesn't know how far the hive reaches, how many creches they may have, how many adults. They must be stopped. None can survive. If she misses even one, this nightmare will repeat itself. Over and over, down through the centuries. How many deaths will she be responsible for then? No. This task is too big to tackle one demon at a time.

So, though she can feel the vessel of her soul already cracking under the pressure of the power she wields, she does as Dim-Dim instructed. She releases everything—her fear, her anger. Her past. Her future. Her love—her very self. She pours it all, everything she is, into the fire. She surrenders.

And implodes.

The explosion in the forest was the result of trying to force her fire to be something it was not—and also possibly a wayward side-effect of a child of water in a womb of fire. She understands that now. This is different. Like the eruption of a volcano, the birth of a star, her fire contracts in on itself, then releases with a fury she could never hope to control. Fire blasts the heart of the hive, killing the wendigos instantly. It explodes through the tunnels, every tiny nook, incinerating everything in its path. Rock scorches and cracks under the blazing heat, collapsing in places. The mountain shakes to its roots, an earthquake agitating the ground.

"_C__hikushō_!" Tetsu turns white with fear, staring at the wall of fire fast approaching those still underground.

"Be at peace." Zara's hand touches his shoulder, eyes gleaming with satisfaction. "That is the fury of the queen. Her firestarter won't harm us."

The blast of raw, elemental fire swallows them. And, as Zara promised, they don't burn. They don't suffocate. Warmth bleeds through them, the first warmth some of the captives have felt in moons. Zara embraces it, ignoring the tears on her cheeks.

* * *

"How much longer?" Doubar moans. He stares at the silent entrance to the mountain.

"Peace, my boy. You don't know how far she has to go, how many creatures there may be. Have patience."

Doubar has never been good at patience and right now he really isn't interested in learning. He needs his brother, he needs those terrifying creatures to be dead, and he needs Maeve to emerge from that tunnel safe. Also preferably not on fire. That really freaks him out.

If she doesn't come back, the werewolves will turn on them. He doesn't need to be told. With the help of Dim-Dim's magic they may be able to hold them off, but he doesn't know if he'd wager much on their odds. Much as it irks him to say, he felt safer with Maeve as a buffer. The wolves don't like her but they fear her, and that's just as useful.

She's a gorgeous thing, maybe the prettiest girl Doubar has ever met, though she's definitely not his type. He prefers his women soft and sweet—sweeter than Maeve could ever be, even if drowned in honey. But he likes the strange, fiery girl. Moreover, he worries for her. Even a girl who can turn into a literal ball of flame may find a pack of these demons difficult to subdue.

And then there's Sinbad. He needs his brother, and it stands to reason that Sinbad is probably in that cave. Only Dim-Dim's warning to stay put holds him back. Otherwise he'd be in there, following the light of that flame, searching for his little brother. He should never have allowed Sinbad to come up the mountain by himself in the first place; Maeve wasn't wrong about that. She just doesn't know Sinbad, doesn't know how difficult stopping him is once his mind's made up.

A sudden earthquake rocks the mountain.

Doubar swears, reaching for Dim-Dim at the same moment Rongar does, both of them steadying the old man. They step out of the protection of the trees, stumbling into the open space in front of the cave. Rongar kicks off the contraptions tied to his feet as snow tumbles down the mountain slope.

"Look out! Earthquakes have been known to trigger avalanches." Firouz stares up at the steep slope.

"Trigger what?"

"Like mudslides, but snow."

Oh, that's not good. "That could bury the entrance!" Doubar protests.

"It could bury _us_!" Firouz snaps back.

"There's that, too." Doubar remains at Dim-Dim's side. The old sorcerer raised him and his brother after their parents' deaths, and he's not about to let him die in the snow now.

The mountain stops trembling. Doubar watches the steep slope, but he sees no evidence of an uncontrolled snow-slide. Snow tumbles down the mountainside and drifts at their feet, but not enough to worry about.

"I said it before and I'll say it again: I am never traveling this far north ever again. I refuse. And if something doesn't happen soon, I'm going in there after her."

"I don't know if that's such a good—" Firouz's voice is cut off by a blast of fire erupting from the mouth of the cave. It's huge, and so hot Doubar can feel the deadly heat from dozens of feet away.

The wolves duck back into the cover of the trees. Doubar has the opposite reaction. "Maeve!" He lurches forward.

Both Firouz and Rongar grab his shoulders, hauling him back. "Are you crazy? Do you want to die, too?"

"I want Sinbad!" Doubar shoves them off, but doesn't move any closer to the mouth of the tunnel, now black and smoking. "She was our only clue!"

"Take heart, Doubar." Dim-Dim stares at the mouth of the cave, his eyes bright. "She's not dead. Not she. Transformed, perhaps. I don't think she'll ever quite be what she was again. But that's life. We grow and change. We can't go back."

"Spare me your philosophizing, old man!" the leader of the wolves barks. "What now?"

"Look!" Firouz points at the mouth of the cave.

Slowly, slowly, like groundhogs terrified of their own shadows, people begin to emerge. They're filthy, pale and ashen, and they stumble like sleepwalkers woken too soon and too sharply.

"Dzieba!" Suni yelps like a startled canine and darts forward. A dirty, rangy girl in a rough gray smock lunges for him.

Isari is at their side a moment later. He touches the girl's tangled black hair, her head buried in her brother's shoulder. Doubar is happy for the lad, but impatience rises in him. He wants his brother.

"What of Marta?" Isari demands.

The girl rolls her head to the side on her brother's shoulder. She refuses to let go. "I don't want to talk about it. Ever." Tears shine on her cheeks. Her hard, angry voice tells Doubar all he needs to know.

"And our brothers? Several have disappeared. Are they here?" Isari's chin lifts as he searches the crowd with eyes and nose.

"Alpha." A man steps forward. A gust of wind sweeps his hair back, and Doubar's mouth drops open. His ears are pointed. "My name is Rolly. There have been wolves. Two, that I recall. They did not follow the demons' orders, which meant they did not survive."

Isari and the stranger exchange a long look as the rest of the wolves surround Suni and the girl, welcoming their missing member and mourning their losses. Doubar has difficulty with the wolves' language, but he understands that werewolves and fairies do not get along. As the two men stare at each other, he wonders if this will be a fight. There are far more captives than wolves, but the people huddled in and around the mouth of the cave are thin and pale, frightened and exhausted. If the wolves attack, this will be a massacre.

The man facing Isari must be a leader. He looks tired, but unafraid. A heavy black beard covers his cheeks. He watches the wolf evenly.

Finally Isari speaks. "No brothers of mine would ever willingly submit to slavery. They died well." He nods, as if satisfied.

The man is entitled to his own opinion, but Doubar doesn't agree. He wants his brother back, and if that means Sinbad had to submit to captivity for a while, so be it. There's no shame in plotting, waiting for the right time to seek revenge. He and Sinbad have done so many times.

Whether Rolly agrees with Isari or not, Doubar can't tell. The man says nothing, instead slipping back into the cluster of people huddled close beside the mountain.

Doubar can't wait any longer. The wolves have their surviving sister. He needs his brother. He wades through the snow and takes the nearest man by the arm. "What of Sinbad? My brother. Sinbad. Was he with you? Answer me!"

The man shakes him off and steps back. "I know no one of that name."

Doubar's heart drops. All this time, all this distance—for nothing?

Most of the people have not advanced from the mouth of the cave. They hang back, huddled together for warmth and security, blinking with painful, watery eyes at the overcast morning light. Doubar wants to feel badly for them. He does. But he's just...numb. Maeve never promised that her quest would lead them to Sinbad. In fact, she tried very hard to keep them from coming. But Doubar was so sure.

"Be at peace, friends." Dim-Dim steps forward, leaning on his silver staff. "There's plenty of wood—let's build a few fires and see if we can't begin to get sorted out."

Frightened black eyes flick toward Isari and the rest of the wolves. Nobody moves. They're afraid to come closer, but also afraid to go back into the dark of the mountain.

Dim-Dim takes another step. He looks a sight, Maeve's leather belt holding his cloak lumpily around his waist, leaning on his staff, Firouz's ridiculous contraptions strapped to his feet. "There will be no more bloodshed here today. I think we've all seen more than our share of that for a while."

"I'll say," Firouz mutters.

"We are no minions of yours to boss around, foreigner!" Isari snaps.

The lanky girl places a flat palm on his chest, her motion firm. "But he's right. These," she motions to a cluster of women all dressed identically in dirty grey smocks, "did everything they could for Marta, right until the end. She wouldn't want to repay that with suffering. I've sworn not to."

Isari cups her cheek in his big, hairy hand, the first tender gesture Doubar has seen from him. "But you look hungry, _lek'vi_. You are too thin."

"I will eat." She grins fiercely. "Find me a hibernating bear and I will eat him whole. But leave these be. Please."

Doubar didn't think werewolves knew that word. To his surprise, Isari gives in.

"For you, then. For Marta."

Suni looks back at the cave mouth. "What about Maeve?"

Yes, Doubar would like to know that, too. Dim-Dim said she was alive, but all of the people huddled near the mouth of the cave look like locals. He sees no glimmer of flaming curls anywhere.

"She'll be along," Dim-Dim says, but Doubar knows the man. He's not as sure as he'd like to sound. "Go on with your pack. It will calm the others."

This much, at least, is sound advice. The people here are terrified, and they won't budge with a pack of werewolves so close.

Suni seems to accept this. "Thank her for me." He allows his sister to leave his arms.

Isari lifts her with more tenderness than Doubar ever expected from the angry pack leader. "I do not like leaving without avenging your littermate," he says, holding her as if she weighs nothing. She's wearing only the rough slave smock all the women are dressed in, but the cold doesn't seem to bother the wolves.

"She was avenged by fire. What more could be done?"

Isari seems to accept this. For the moment. Doubar agrees that it's best they go. They're scaring the poor captives, and not even Dim-Dim can guarantee Isari's continued calm. Maeve could, but she's missing. Anyway, they're no longer needed. They led the way. Maeve did the rest, just as she vowed.

"I'm sorry for your loss," Firouz says. Doubar wants to agree, but he's still too caught up in his own. What about Sinbad?

A flash of pain crosses Suni's young face, but he steels his expression. "One sister found is better than none. I hope you find your brother."

Yeah, Doubar does, too. But if he's not here, where is he?


	15. Chapter 15

_Told you the next one was coming soon! (__FWIW, "Rolly" is pronounced RAW-ley, not like roly-poly.)_

**The Mountain**

Pairing: Maeve/Sinbad  
Rating: M (language, sex, violence)  
Setting: Alternate  
All standard disclaimers apply

* * *

She's here.

Is he dreaming again? He always dreams about her. It's agony, because he always wakes up alone, colder than he was before. She isn't here. She can't be. He's underground, alone in the dark and the cold, Rolly and Tetsu off somewhere in the mountain. He stirs under his blanket, freezing sweat on his skin. Tovar and Harutyun lie near, exhausted and snoring amid the pile of dirty male bodies. It's a dream, he tells himself. Or death finally closing in. But, fuck it all, he swears he can smell her. Crystallized honey and sweet woodsmoke, soft but strong, calming his nerves, his racing, laboring heart.

His eyes roll toward the heavy wooden door and he sees it, the first lick of flame seeping underneath, licking hungrily at the wood. Maybe it's a dream and maybe it isn't, but he reaches for it nevertheless. He can't get up. He struggles, unable to move toward that beautiful sight. All he can do is groan softly, his hand outstretched, desperate for the kiss of that sweet flame. It's her. It has to be.

A man cries out, waking the others. They stir blearily, stumbling as they rise, drawing back from the fire as it slips under the door, biting at the wood. Panic ripples through the crowd, but Sinbad isn't afraid. He can smell her, soft and bright, full of heat and life. Fire licks hungrily at the door.

"Smother it!" a man cries, raising his blanket.

"Don't!" Sinbad rasps. He reaches for the man, catches hold of the corner of the blanket. The man tears it from his grasp with an easy jerk, but Sinbad persists. They can't snuff that flame. "She's not here to harm us!"

"She?" The man stares at him.

"He's babbling nonsense. He's wet with fever," another man says. "Smother the flame!"

"I'm not!" Sinbad insists, though truly he's not sure. Is he dreaming? If so, he never wants to wake up. He can smell her, can see that bright, sweet flame, and his heart fills. She came. She's here. If he's dreaming, let him dream. Let him die in peace. It's better than the reality he leaves behind. "It's the queen's firestarter," he says, inhaling deep despite the pain in his gut. He needs her sweet scent in his nose, on his tongue. He stares at the rapidly expanding fire as it eats swiftly at the door barring their passage.

The Fae men pause, peering at him uncertainly. They can smell his human scent, can see his round ears and sun-kissed southern skin; they know he's none of theirs.

"What do you know of our queen?" one asks doubtfully.

"It doesn't matter." The first man raises his blanket once more.

"Stay," Tovar says, grasping his arm. "If it is the queen's firestarter, she won't harm us."

"How could a fire start down here without magical means?" another Fae man asks. "This isn't a coal mine. The only fuel is the door."

This gives the other men pause. They calm slightly and stare at the bright flame as it swiftly consumes the door penning them like animals. Smoke plumes, but it rises to the ceiling of their chamber, far above their heads. To Sinbad, this flame is the most beautiful thing he's ever seen. More beautiful than his ship, his ocean. It's bright, so bright it hurts his eyes. Tears wet his cheeks; he ignores them. White and yellow, gold and orange, glimmers of blue and green at the very center, it burns with a beauty every bit as fierce as Maeve's. In comparison, the smoky torches lighting their cell seem like nothing. Again Sinbad stretches out his hand, struggling to rise. He needs her. Her fire has never harmed him. Even in the woods, when it exploded unexpectedly, he survived. He should have died, should have burned to cinders, but he didn't. He's fearless now, so incredibly cold, intent on the heat of that flame.

"Don't." A man grabs his sleeve as Sinbad struggles to rise, reaching for the fire.

"Maeve won't harm me."

"It could be her. It could be a trick. It could be an accident. You don't know."

But he does know. He can smell her, and all his fear, all his anxieties, melt away. He rolls onto his stomach and drags himself forward, feeling the wounds in his belly rip open on the rough cavern floor. Wet blood eases his way. Nobody stops him this time.

The fire is so beautiful. He remembers touching her, loving her, as she glowed with the colors of flame as if lit from within. Golden-orange, deep ruby, sunshine yellow—the colors of warmth, of life, fill his eyes. The heat of the flame is like her caress, and fuck, it feels amazing. He's so cold. So incredibly cold. His blood leaks onto the stone floor. He ignores it, utterly unafraid as he reaches out one final time and places his hand deliberately into the flames.

Heat rushes up his arm. It hurts—good gods, it hurts, but it feels so fucking good, too. He's been frozen for what feels like years, and now a surge of exquisite heat rolls through him. He swears his skin sears, swears he feels it peeling away from his flesh, flaying him raw, eating him alive. He welcomes it. Warmth bleeds into him even as the flames lick his skin, warmth that has both everything and nothing to do with the fire he willingly touched. She's here.

The strangest feeling invades him, softly painful, heat unlike any he's ever felt before. Her smoke-sweet scent surrounds him, her taste heavy on his tongue, and as this new heat expands, so too does his awareness.

Maeve. She's with him. Her presence fills him, a sweet, feathery touch of flame in his mind. She wraps that warmth around him, enveloping him in the hot-sweet sensation that's all-consuming, all her. Love washes over him, tinged with the flavor of her desire. His girl. She loves him. She cradles his heart with the warmth of her love even as her fire runs along his skin, painfully sharp, searing as it passes.

He's not afraid. Tears fall and dry instantly on his cheeks, pain and joy. She's here, and she loves him. What could he possibly fear? Maeve won't harm him. He believes with all his heart that she never would. Her fire bleeds through him, the intensity of her presence overwhelming his system. He can feel her thoughts, her emotions, as if they were his own. She's gentle as she takes the information she needs from his mind—the trapped captives, the layout of the tunnels. The dark purpose of the demons.

She strokes him gently, feathers of contact along his mind. She can't hide from him like this and he sees it all—the child she almost chose to rid herself of, the child she was never going to reveal. Her anger at him for leaving her alone. The desolation she felt without him, but her willingness to let him go. And over all of it, the constant of her love.

The rest of it doesn't matter. He should have told her how he felt from the start despite his fear. She had every right to assume he would go away again, but he never will. Only death can take him from her now, and even that she seems able to defy as the touch of her fire burns through his blood. She's not a healer, but in this moment he believes she can do anything.

He can't, though. His body, already pushed beyond its limits, falters. This coming together is far more intense than sex, more intense than anything he's ever felt before. He wants to cling to her, to keep her with him, but his body just can't fight anymore. She's far stronger than he'll ever be, and anyway she has a job to do. A promise to keep.

When she gently extracts herself, leaving the host of his body, the loss is too great to endure. He tries to suck in air, but flames touch his mouth, stealing his breath. He surrenders to darkness. If this is the end, he's content. She loves him. She loves him, and he gave her everything he could.

* * *

"Sinbad! Sinbad!" Male hands shake him gently.

He groans. Everything hurts. He swears even his hair hurts. But everything always hurts down here in the darkness. Slowly he opens his eyes. "Tetsu." He uses his arms to slowly turn onto his back. Why was he sleeping on his stomach? He hasn't been able to do that since the creature ripped him open. He digs dirty, sooty fingers into his eyes. Fuck, that stings. But the sting of soot brings with it the scent of soft woodsmoke and honey.

Not a dream. She wasn't a dream this time.

"_Maeve!_"

"Easy, Sinbad! Breathe. One step at a time." Tetsu grips his shoulder as he struggles to rise.

Sinbad pushes the hand away. "Where is she?" He can smell her. No one and nothing else in the world smells like that. He uses his arms to lever himself to a sitting position. His head swims, but he ignores it. Hesitantly, he puts a hand to his belly.

His shirt has adhered to his skin, stuck to him with dried blood. He rubs his palm over the dirty linen, and can feel that his wounds have closed. They haven't vanished and they still hurt, but not like before. He surrendered willingly to her fire, and it restored him. Not wholly—not completely. But enough. His body can fight now. It can heal.

"By the gods, you're covered in blood!"

Yes, he is. He ripped himself open on this fucking floor trying to reach her. Slowly his memories trickle back to him. She was here. Not in flesh, but in spirit—her spirit of fire. She entered him. Kissed and held him, safe and warm for the first time since he was taken. She gave him everything, everything she is. The truth she hid. The child she bears. The love she holds. His heart surges like a wave. His girl. His head feels clearer than it has since he was brought down into the darkness; her fire burned the wound-sickness away.

"It's okay." Sinbad breathes deeply, savoring the smoke-sweet scent. "It's an old wound now." It's past, and he doesn't want to think about the past. He wants to think about the future. He could waste time being angry that she lied to him, planned to leave without even telling him she carries his child. But he's as much to blame, and he doesn't want to waste another minute. He should have told her how he felt from the beginning. He loved her from the first, and people who don't believe in love at first sight can get fucked for all he cares. She was willing to set him free, but that's the last thing in the world he wants.

Their rocky cell is deserted, he and Tetsu alone in the echoing cavern. The doorway is a black, yawning maw, sooty and scorched. Sinbad pulls his feet under him.

"Can you stand?" Tetsu sounds doubtful.

'Can' doesn't enter into it. He's going to. He needs to find her. "I said it's okay." He forces himself to his feet. His knees shake, but he's upright. He's standing. He pulls on his tattered jacket. "Where is she?"

Tetsu shakes his head. "I've seen no girl, Sinbad. None but the ones in their cell."

"Are they free?"

"Aye. Let's go outside, into the air. That's where everyone is." Tetsu takes a step, extending the arm holding a torch. "I came back for you. I promised we would leave this mountain together."

Sinbad clasps his shoulder briefly. Yes, Tetsu did promise, and he never breaks a vow. But Sinbad doesn't want everyone. He wants no one but Maeve. He inhales her scent, willing it to calm him. She was here. She freed them all. But where is she now?

"Do you need my shoulder?"

Sinbad shakes his head. He's going to walk out of here under his own power. And he's not leaving without Maeve. "Maeve did this. My girl. I have to find her." He rubs his face, knowing he's smearing soot and not caring. It smells like her, and it comforts him. "How long was I out?"

"I don't know. Rolly and I found the exit. We picked the lock on the tool room, got pickaxes, and were on our way to the women's cell when a burst of fire passed. By the time we reached them, the door was burning." His eyes gleam as he remembers. "That was not a natural fire, Sinbad."

"It was Maeve." Sinbad smiles with satisfaction, imagining how Zara and the others must have felt when they saw the fire. He remembers how he felt—the elation, the joy. He knew she'd find them. His faith in his body's ability to stay alive faltered, but never his faith in her. He always knew she'd win.

"After what I saw, I don't doubt you." Tetsu shakes his head in wonder. "That fire—it passed through us. It felt warm, beautifully warm, but it caused no harm." He extends an arm, turning it for Sinbad to see. His sleeve is singed and several inches shorter, but his skin is smooth and unburnt.

"Where did it go?"

"After it left the women it swept deeper into the mountain. We kicked the burning door down and got the girls out. A bigger flame caught us in the tunnels, an explosion of fire like I've never seen before. It was an inferno. We saw it coming, but had no time to run. It swallowed us, and I thought we were dead. I was just glad that all the demons around us would die, too."

"But it didn't kill you."

Tetsu shakes his head. "But the demons, they screamed like I've never heard before." His black eyes snap with grim satisfaction. "It was the most awful sound I've ever heard. The most beautiful sound I've ever heard."

"Are they dead?"

Tetsu nods.

"All of them?" Sinbad presses. He doesn't doubt Maeve's ability, but he needs to be sure. If they leave even one alive, this whole mess will start all over again.

"You didn't see that flame, Sinbad. Nothing survived unless the fire wanted it to."

Unless Maeve wanted it to. Sinbad wishes he could have seen it. More than that, he wishes for her now. "But you didn't see her? She's unmistakable. A Celt, tall and lovely, with hair like flame."

Tetsu shakes his head. "I'm sorry, my friend. Come outside. Rolly is trying to organize everyone. There was chaos, so many people huddled near the entrance, and talk of werewolves. I couldn't get out, so I turned back to fetch you. It may be that she's there, even now."

Somehow, Sinbad doubts it. Maeve isn't the kind to get lost in a crowd, and here among these dark-haired locals she would stand out like the flame she is. No, Tetsu could not have missed her.

"No." He lifts a torch from the wall, his muscles sore but stronger than they've been in days. He aches for fresh air, for the touch of wind on his skin, but he needs to find her. "You go. I need her."

"You don't know that she's still in the mountain." Tetsu frowns, his eyes straying to the dried blood coating the front of Sinbad's clothing.

"I know she was here, and I know you wouldn't have missed her in the crowd. It's not possible." Sinbad steps through the black doorway. The tunnel is scorched, rocks shattered here and there by the force of the blast. He can smell her, and the soft, sweet scent buoys him.

"We can organize a search party." Tetsu waves to the right with his own torch. "It's safer than going alone. The mountain shook to its roots. These tunnels may not be stable."

"Then I'm not subjecting anyone else to that danger." Sinbad turns to the left, the passage that leads deeper into the mountain. "She's here. I can feel it." Something in him knows she's near. He listens to it, as he listens to his bones when they tell him a storm's fast approaching.

Tetsu steps close. "Then I go with you, brother."

Sinbad doesn't stop him. Arguing will take more time, and he's too impatient to waste a second longer. He was a breath away from death until Maeve rescued him, and his life now feels all the more precious for having almost lost it. He needs her.

They stride into the darkness, both holding torches, faster and more sure than they've ever traversed these tunnels. Sinbad can smell her in the very rocks, the scorch marks and heat-shatter leading his steps. She was angry—very, very angry. He could feel it when she left him, and he can feel it even now in the signs of her passing. Those demons didn't stand a chance.

When they reach the women's cell Sinbad ducks inside. He doubts she's there, but he casts a quick glance around anyway. Nothing remains except a few crumpled blankets, a few smoky torches on the walls. His mouth curls in a tense smile. He hopes Zara and her girls are happy. They're free, and with Rolly in charge of things out on the surface he has every faith they'll be as comfortable as possible until they can reach healers and help. He ducks out of the cavern and continues on.

The little honeycombed chambers full of juvenile demons stink like burned flesh and rot, and Sinbad gags as he looks at the blackened husks in their tiny nooks. Even Tetsu looks sick. There are many—more than Sinbad wants to count. Each one represents the death of a woman who did not willingly carry it, did not willingly die. He hates each charred shell, every sharp, knobby horn that spelled death for its host. Guilt consumes him, guilt that he didn't come sooner, didn't realize what was happening faster. So many deaths.

Tetsu's hand squeezes his shoulder. Sinbad turns his head to regard his friend. The ronin understands. He was called, just as Sinbad was. Their task was to do this together.

"Try to look at it this way," the ronin says softly. "Look at all the empty holes. Think of the ones in the other tunnel, the ones we helped to dig. They will never be filled now."

Tetsu's right. They weren't able to save the wolf-girl's sister, weren't able to save so many women before her. But they prevented an untold number of deaths by solving this riddle, by struggling in the dark to free everyone from their captivity. They did what they could, and Maeve did the rest.

When he reaches her, it's the best moment of his life. The worst moment of his life.

She's still as the grave, collapsed near a wall in a large cavern. Nothing but piles of ash remain of the demons, even their noxious stench burned away by her sweet smoke scent.

"No!" His torch clatters to the ground and he drops to his knees at her side.

She's a woman of flesh and bone once more, her clothing burned away, the violent, vibrant red of her hair a stark contrast to the blackened cavern, the icy pallor of her skin. His hands reach for her.

She's cold, as cold as the rock around her. Fear grips him. She's never cold. She's not supposed to be cold. Even after that disastrous explosion in the woods, she wasn't cold.

"_Maeve_."

She's lying half on her side, half on her stomach. He lowers his head toward hers, pushing close, and holds his breath. She has to be alive. She has to. She's part of him—ever since they merged, he's been able to feel her. He'd know if she were dead, wouldn't he? He can't lose her. Not now.

And yes, she's breathing. His heart twists as he feels a cold rush of air against his cheek, light as feathers, light as snow. He exhales a deep breath of his own and sucks in another, relief flooding his body. His muscles tremble as he listens to that soft, beautiful sound. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. She's alive.

Behind him, Tetsu picks up the discarded torch. The light shifts, dancing along her pale, pale skin.

"Maeve." He whispers her name in the darkness. She needs help, but he has no idea what to do for her. He strokes her bare, gleaming shoulder, brushing her hair back gently. She's so cold. Cold like the stone that surrounds them, cold as the mountain itself. What that means, he doesn't know. She's alive, for now, but can she survive without her fire?

He shucks off his fur-lined jacket and wraps it around her. Her body rolls onto its back as he lifts her arm to gently insert it into a sleeve. The red, coppery smell of blood hits his nose and he freezes. "She's hurt."

"No. Just moon-blood." Tetsu sounds embarrassed.

Sinbad looks, even as his heart plummets. Her velvet-soft lower lips and the inside of her thighs are streaked with red. "No," he says softly. "She was with child." He guesses he should have expected it. How could a spark of life barely conceived survive what she just did? He winds his arms around her and draws her carefully against his chest. She doesn't wake.

"I'm sorry, brother."

Sinbad swallows, tucking her sweet body close. All he wanted for so long was this—the feel of her back in his arms, back where she belongs. He didn't know she carried his child until she merged with him, so this loss shouldn't feel so consuming. But it does. He presses his lips gently to her cold forehead. "Let's get out of here." She's a creature of fire. She doesn't belong here, so far underground, away from all light and warmth. He lifts her carefully.

Tetsu doesn't try to stop him. Sinbad's muscles ache, but she's not a big woman for all she's so tall. He holds her close, willing his body heat to warm her. He'll survive a miscarried child but he won't survive the loss of this woman.

"To the surface?"

Sinbad nods. "I need to get her warm." What she needs beyond that he doesn't know, but they won't find it here below ground. He pushes his aching body as swiftly as he can, following the torches Tetsu carries. Maeve needs warmth—heat and light. He's terrified of what may happen if she remains cold for too long.

"A blanket, perhaps?" Tetsu pauses at the doorway of the women's cavern.

"Yes." Absolutely. Whatever they can do. Sinbad hates the thought of setting her down, but he can't cover her with his own arms in the way. He wraps her in two thin, dirty blankets discarded when the women escaped, then lifts her again as Tetsu gathers the others.

"Might come in handy. It's cold out there. Snowy." Tetsu waves his torch toward the surface.

As he does, the flame dips close to Maeve's face. She shifts.

Sinbad freezes. It's the first sign of life he's seen from her. "Do that again."

Tetsu brings the torch near. The flame flickers softly, painting Maeve's icy skin pale gold. Her head turns on Sinbad's shoulder, eyelids fluttering as she senses warmth.

"Give it to her."

"What do you mean?" Tetsu frowns.

"Lift her arm. I don't have a free hand. Lift her arm and put it in the flame."

"Are you sure?" The ronin sounds doubtful.

Sinbad's never been more sure in his life. "You won't hurt her, I promise. Please."

Tetsu unfolds a flap of blanket and takes her wrist gently. His black eyes flick to Sinbad. "I don't know, my friend."

"I do. Trust me. She needs this." Sinbad is sure if she was awake she'd say as much herself.

Carefully, wincing as he does so, Tetsu complies. He moves her loosely curled fingers into the flame.

The torch immediately winks out, the fire sucked swiftly into her body. Her hand glows molten gold-orange for a moment before the light fades.

"What the…" Tetsu stares.

Maeve shifts, her hand flexing. She groans softly and unconsciously tucks herself into Sinbad's chest, seeking the warmth of his body heat.

"Another!" Sinbad looks around the cavern. Three more torches burn along the walls. "All but one for light. Hurry!"

Tetsu obeys without further protest. He lifts the nearest torch from the wall and gives it to her, lifting her hand gently into the flame. This time her hand reaches, seeking the heat of the fire, and her palm clamps down over the sooty, tarry head of the torch. Fire flickers visibly around her wrist for an instant before her body absorbs it. She gasps, sucking in air, and releases the torch.

"More." Sinbad holds her tight and strides swiftly toward the next torch. "Hurry, Tetsu."

The ronin lifts the flame from the wall. Her head turns, eyes struggling open, raw hunger lighting in them as her shaking arm reaches imploringly for the flame.

"Easy, _l__eannán_." Sinbad holds her tightly. "You can have all the fire you want, I promise."

Her hand snaps out, into the smoky little flame of the torch, absorbing its energy instantly. Her other arm slips around his shoulders, hugging him close. "S-sinbad," she stutters as her body begins to shake.

"I've got you, precious thing." He presses his lips to her forehead. She still feels like ice. He has to fix that.

Tetsu brings the last torch they can spare. He offers it and her hand swiftly finds the flame. "More," she pleads as her body absorbs the fire.

"I know, _l__eannán_." Sinbad holds her tightly. Her inner flame is the most powerful magic he's ever witnessed. These torches are like raindrops compared to the ocean of her fire. She needs far more to replenish and steady it, to keep her safely alive and here with him. "Tetsu, we need fire."

"There should be fire outside by now, and wood to build more."

Yes. Now that he's found her, Sinbad aches to feel fresh, living air on his skin. To see daylight, even the dismal overcast light of the snowy mountain. He hugs her close and heads for the tunnels. "I'll get you fire. Just hang on. Please." She trembles violently against him, tucking herself as close to his skin as she can get. Sweet thing. Has she ever felt cold before? He doubts it.

They walk swiftly, as swiftly as Sinbad's aching body can manage. Both he and Maeve shake with cold and fatigue. He forces himself to keep going, forces his arms to remain steady around her. He needed her and she saved him. Now she needs him, and he has to do the same.

Light appears, a blindingly bright dot that ruins his night vision, drawing swiftly nearer as they walk. He stumbles, but Tetsu steadies him with a firm arm and he swiftly recovers. Maeve's arms clutch at his neck and shoulders. She's so cold. He holds her as tight as he can.

The first breath of fresh, freezing air feels like cool water on a parched throat. He fills his lungs swiftly, over and over, hearing Tetsu beside him do the same. Oh, that's cold. Even colder than the tunnels. But so fucking good, too. Tears stream from his eyes. Daylight hurts like daggers, but the only sweeter pain he's ever felt is Maeve's fire.

"Light, _l__eannán_. _Light_." He kisses her sooty hair.

"F-fire," she groans, pleading piteously. He knows. He'll give her whatever he can, just as soon as he can. He inhales as they approach the mouth of the cave, smelling snow, wet wood, and yes, smoky fire.

They emerge into the light. Tetsu immediately offers the torch in his hand. Maeve can't see, her eyes shut tight as she shakes, but she can feel as the little flame draws near. Her hand reaches without sight, finding the fire without fumbling. It disappears quickly in a brief flash of gold.

Sinbad tips his head up, staring at the low gray clouds. He'll never take the sky for granted again. He sends a silent thanks into the universe, then steps forward, toward the nearest fire. The child Maeve's body harbored for such a brief time may be gone, but she still lives. Sinbad lives. He's standing under the wide sky, breathing real air. Even the snow around his boots feels like a blessing. The loss still hurts, but compared to the disaster this could have been he has to be thankful. Count his blessings. Maeve is alive. She loves him. No pain can overshadow that.

Four bonfires cluster in the small clearing around the mouth of the cave. He recognizes nothing of their surroundings, but then, he doesn't expect to. He was unconscious when the demon captured him, and hasn't been out of the mountain since. He and Tetsu push gently through the crowd of people warming themselves at the nearest fire.

"Firestarter." Zara appears at his side. She touches Maeve's red curls with reverence. "Sinbad, what happened?"

He has no idea how to respond. Maeve needs the fire; that's all he knows. He drops to his knees on the bare, wet ground at the edge of the fire. His skin prickles with the welcome, flaming heat.

Maeve knows the fire is there. Bleary brown eyes snap open, squinting at the intense light of the flames. Her breath catches in her throat, a sharp whimper of desire. She reaches imploringly for the fire with a shaking arm.

"Careful, _l__eannán_. Slowly. You're fireproof, but no one else is." He sets her on his knees and frees his arm, touching her face. She's so cold.

Hungry eyes turn to him, desperate and deep. "Please, Sinbad." She shakes like a twig in the harsh mountain wind.

"Just promise you'll come back to me." He touches her cold mouth gently with his.

Frozen fingers brush his cheek. "Always."

This goes against everything in him—the animal instinct that fears fire, the raging urge to keep his mate safe. But she's not a normal human, and she won't survive if he keeps her from the fire. He takes a breath, holding the scent of her deep in his lungs, and tips her gently out of her blankets, into the flame.

Several male voices cry out. Sinbad ignores them. They don't understand, but they will in a moment. All of his attention focuses on the woman in the flames. A pair of arms reaches for her, attempting to pull her free of the fire. Tetsu steps between them, helping Sinbad protect her from the well-meaning man. She needs this. The ronin saw how she absorbed the energy of the torches, and he trusts Sinbad. He stands firm. "Be calm," he says. "We mean her no harm."

The fire welcomes Maeve like a lover. The jacket Sinbad tucked around her burns away almost instantly, and flames flicker along her skin, beautiful and sensual, slowly sinking into her like water into cloth. She glows golden-orange, the colors of fire glittering, gleaming across her skin. She's a gorgeous, lovely woman of pure flame. The bonfire disappears, drawing into her, her body absorbing every flicker of flame hungrily. The freed captives stare, some reverent, others frightened. Not Sinbad. He knows her intimately, knows perfectly the sound of her sleeping breaths, her wild heartbeat. He could never fear her.

She absorbed the energy of the torches instantly. This takes slightly longer, her body curled in the smoking remnants of the fire, still shivering. When the glowing color in her skin finally begins to ebb, Sinbad reaches for her. Cautious, he strokes her bare ankle. She'd never consciously hurt him, but he wouldn't be surprised if she was too hot to touch.

She isn't. He exhales a shaky breath as the pads of his fingers stroke her skin. She's blissfully, lustrously warm—just as she should be. Just as he remembers. He pulls her body carefully from the fire.

Zara remains at his side. She tucks the dirty blankets around Maeve once again as Sinbad cradles her against his body. Her sweet smoke scent surrounds him and he closes his eyes for a long moment, content with the entire world. Maeve is alive, and safe in his arms. Still shivering, but her skin is warm and he can feel her inner fire once more. It's smaller than he's used to, but it's there. He has faith that she'll recover.

"Does she need more fire?" Zara strokes the dirty, sooty tangles of Maeve's wild red hair.

Sinbad doesn't know. He runs his fingers gently down her warm, silken cheek. "Maeve. _L__eannán__._ Can you hear me?"

She shifts slowly, pressing close to his throat, the warmth of his skin.

"Sinbad!" A male voice lights with surprise. "You're up?" Rolly appears, a burning branch from one of the other fires in his hand. "Build that back up, you lot. Make yourselves useful. The firestarter didn't free you just so you could stare at her."

Hands scramble to obey, rebuilding the fire swiftly. Rolly lights it once more. Tetsu tucks an extra blanket around Zara's shoulders and hands the others around the circle.

Sinbad ignores them. All his concentration focuses on the woman in his arms. She's bleary and slow with exhaustion, which is absolutely her right after what she just did.

"More fire might be a good idea." He glances at Zara. Maeve feels warm to the touch but she's still shivering.

"Luckily that's something we can give her." The woman rises.

Sinbad follows, Maeve's blanket-wrapped body held tight against him. Maeve protests weakly as they leave the fireside, but he kisses her forehead and hushes her gently. "Let that fire build again, _l__eannán_. We'll get you a better one."

The next fire is across the small clearing. As they near it, a sudden commotion from the forest makes Sinbad tense.

A band of shaggy, ragged men and one rangy girl step from the woods. The wolf-girl. He doesn't need to be told what the men are. They carry two large, dead bucks on their broad shoulders.

They stare at each other for a long moment. Sinbad feels people gather close at his back; he ignores them.

"Sinbad. Zara." The wolf-girl looks at him. At Zara. At the body in his arms.

He inclines his head to her. She agreed not to attack the other women while in captivity, but he has no idea what might happen now.

She glances at her men. Slowly they move, dumping the bucks in the clearing. One werewolf steps forward.

"So you're the one she worked so hard to free." Keen black eyes rake over Sinbad, assessing him.

"She worked to free everyone. That was her task." He tightens his arms around the shaking body held against him.

The man's nostrils flare as he scents the wind. "She paid a price."

Sinbad doesn't have to ask what he means. Anger flares in him—that's none of this wolf's business. Only his and Maeve's.

Her head shifts on his shoulder, turning to face the wolves. "T-told you to shut up b-before," she stutters, freezing but fierce. Her body may be weak but her spirit remains intact. Sinbad holds her tightly. That's his girl.

The wolf observes her. "Was it worth it?"

"I owe you n-nothing." She tucks her forehead against Sinbad's throat and closes her eyes once more.

Good girl. She owes no one anything, especially this wolf.

"Leave her be, Isari," the wolf-girl says. "She freed me. Killed the demons. What more do you want?"

The wolf doesn't answer. He stares at Sinbad, at Maeve, at the people ringed around them. "I loathe that woman. But even I can admit her strength. Her loyalty." Black eyes settle on Sinbad. "Are you worthy of it, foreigner?"

"No," Sinbad says evenly. "No one is. But I'll spend the rest of my life trying to be." He'll do anything for her—whatever she wants.

"And anyway, that's not how human hearts work, alpha." The shock of the voice behind Sinbad almost fells him. He knows its sweet timbre, the pleasant gentleness. He wants to turn, to whirl around and face Dim-Dim, but he can't. He knows better than to show his back to a pack of werewolves. When he and Maeve fought them before there were only three. Now there are six men and one woman, and he just can't risk taking his eyes off them.

The werewolf who spoke lifts his hand, beckoning the wolf-girl back to his side. She goes. "Our gift to her," the man says, nodding to the deer. "Our thanks for the rescue of one of our own." He pauses. "But I still want her off my mountain."

"We will go," Dim-Dim says from behind Sinbad. "As soon as it is safe."

This seems to appease the wolf. He turns, the rest of his pack behind him, and disappears back into the forest.

Sinbad lets out a slow breath. He kisses Maeve's forehead gently, then turns to the fire.

"What are you doing?" Firouz yelps as he kneels next to the flames.

"What does it look like?" Sinbad feels torn between elation and fury as familiar faces surround him. He told them to stay in Ralgorōd. They were supposed to remain there, safe, while he came up the mountain alone. He shifts Maeve's shaking body in his arms. "Do you want to go in again, _l__eannán_?"

She nods against his shoulder. "Please."

He hates letting her out of his arms, but if that's what she needs, that's what she's getting. He'll set whole towering trees alight if that's what it takes to ease her pain.

"Don't!" Firouz protests as they lean toward the fire. "She saved us!" Sinbad ignores him.

"Be at peace," Dim-Dim says. "She can't be hurt. Not by fire—not she."

"But she's weak," Firouz insists. "She can't protect herself right now."

"You have cause and effect exactly backward, my boy," Dim-Dim says kindly. "Watch."

Sinbad ignores the squabbling of his men and tips Maeve's body carefully into the fire.

"Brother." Doubar clasps his freed arms. "Brother."

Sinbad clasps his in return. "You are in a world of trouble for disobeying orders."

Doubar chortles. "Bring it on."

"See, Firouz?" Dim-Dim says, settling at Sinbad's side. "Fire can't hurt her. It revitalizes her."

Sinbad turns from his brother, watching as Maeve absorbs the fire. She glows brilliant gold, the colors of flame flowing along her skin. He aches to touch her, to have her safe in his arms once again, but he doesn't quite dare when she glows like that.

"I like her much better when she's not on fire," Doubar grumbles.

"A fire-child." Dim-Dim's voice is an awed murmur. "I never dreamed I'd be graced with such a gift as this sight."

Sinbad scowls. "You were supposed to stay in the lowlands."

"Yes, well, circumstances dictated otherwise."

Sinbad can't stand it anymore. He reaches for Maeve. Her skin is hot silk under his hands as he wraps her in blankets and tucks her close. She's still shivering, but he has faith that she'll recover. He can feel her inner fire, small but strong. It won't go out. She burrows into her blankets, pressing close to him.

"Hey." He strokes her dirty hair and nudges her nose with his.

"Hey." Sweet, honey-dark eyes blink at him. "Is this what being cold feels like?"

He can't hide his smile. "Yeah, that's what being cold feels like."

"I hate it."

She's in a foul mood, adorably petulant. He loves it. His grin threatens to split his face. Fuck, he loves her. So much. "So come south with me. You'll never have to be cold again."

"Uh-huh." She nods and tucks herself further into his shoulder.

Relief floods him. Elation. He knew she loved him, but the decision to come with him still feels monumental. She's his girl now—for real. Forever. He'll worry about the details later—her queen, her vow. Right now, he just wants to be happy.

Doubar snorts. "That was coercion."

"Coercion? That was flat-out bribery." Dim-Dim laughs, delighted.

Sinbad doesn't care what they call it. They can call him a kidnapper for all he cares, as long as she stays with him. He survived without her in that hell of a prison only because he had faith that she was searching for him, that they would be together once this whole mess was over. Now it is, and they are. He's never letting her go again.

"Tired, Sinbad."

He knows. He can feel her exhaustion. He strokes the sharp, delicate line of her jaw gently and feels her slowly exhale. "Sleep, then. You deserve it." After everything she's done today he wouldn't be surprised if she slept for a week. He kisses her forehead, feeling her body slowly drop into sleep. Her shivers ease as her muscles relax and she rests, warm and soft against him. His girl. His crew. Freedom. He holds her close and breathes gently, beyond thankful for everything he has. Yes, he and Maeve paid a price for this happiness. But he can't bear to consider the alternative.

"Do you want to tell me why you're wrapped around our guide?" Doubar asks with a weary grunt.

No, he doesn't. He owes no one any explanations. "Do you want to tell me why you risked Dim-Dim by bringing him up the mountain?"

"I didn't! I left him in town with Rongar to watch over him." Doubar's eyes remain locked on the girl in his arms. "You're the companion she was trying to save." He snorts. "She said she was with a man. A man she hadn't known for long." He rolls his eyes. "I should have guessed."

Sinbad grins. "She's mine. Sorry, but you can't have her." He and his brother never fight over women, but he'll fight the world over this one if he has to.

"I don't want her." Doubar chortles. "She's a pretty thing, probably heart-stopping under all that dirt and soot. But I'd rather not take my chances with a girl who bursts randomly into flame."

It's not random at all—Sinbad can tell exactly when it's going to happen. Her anger can be terrifying, yes, but the flames of her passion more than make up for it. "Good. Let's keep it that way."

Doubar looks amused. "You're very good at finding damsels in distress in the middle of nowhere. Looks like you found something else this time."

Very much so. He doubts Maeve qualifies as a damsel, nor has she ever been in distress in her life. He doesn't count today. As far as he's concerned, they rescued each other.

Slowly Firouz and Rongar move to rebuild the fire. Zara fetches a burning branch from one of the other bonfires and brings it back. As the wood relights, warmth returning to the coals, Maeve shifts in Sinbad's arms. He watches in amusement as one bare foot slips from under her blanket. The heat of the fire caresses her toes. Even unconscious she seeks its warmth, its energy, as surely as a moth seeks a candle. Her foot slips into the fire as an ordinary human might dip their toes in a cool stream.

"That's creepy." Doubar shudders.

"It is not." Sinbad loves her magic. He could never fear it. Her foot rests in the flame; it licks at her like a devoted pup. Her skin gleams gold where the fire kisses her.

"To see a fire-child with my own eyes is a very rare privilege," Dim-Dim says at Sinbad's side. He gazes at Maeve with bright reverence. "I knew when I left Ralgorōd that you would need my help. I did not expect to find a legend."

"You know what she is?"

"Oh, yes. The moment I saw her I knew."

Sinbad rests his cheek gently in her hair. She smells like herself, sweet woodsmoke and honey, and he wants to drown in that scent. "She doesn't know."

"Yes, I gathered. It doesn't entirely surprise me. Fire-children are rare—extremely rare. The last recorded sighting was over three hundred years ago."

"That long?"

Dim-Dim shrugs. "There may have been others between. Others, like her, who slipped through the cracks of history. The world is wide, what we know of it narrow." He smiles.

"She serves the Fae queen."

"That would be Riona, in Aven." Dim-Dim nods. "When I saw your friend Rolly I wondered if Her Majesty was caught up in this somehow. I had the pleasure of attending her coronation some years back. She had a number of Celts in her retinue, but no fire-child. I would have remembered that."

Doubar looks affronted. Sinbad has no idea why. Their old master has no obligation to tell them everything he does. "I love her, Dim-Dim."

"And she you. She fought endlessly to reach you." His bright gaze sobers. "But the alpha wolf didn't lie. She paid a price for all these lives."

"Price? What price?" Doubar asks irritably. "I can't understand those awful growls."

"I know she did. _We_ did." Sinbad saw the bloody result with his own eyes. He holds her tight. "If children are meant to come, they'll come. She would have chosen to free these people, even knowing the price." When she joined with him in the fire, she held nothing back. He knows she considered ending this pregnancy, and ultimately decided not to. But he knows her. With the fate of all these people on the line, she couldn't back down. One life or countless lives—for her, there was never any choice. He doubts she knew what would happen. But it wouldn't have changed her mind. He loves her for that selflessness, but prays they'll never be in a position to have to make that choice again.

Doubar stares. "You mean she's—"

"She was." Sinbad doesn't want to talk about it.

"I'm sorry. But...that was fast. Even for you."

Rongar whacks Doubar upside the head.

"Thanks." Sinbad smiles at the Moor. "You're forgiven for disobeying orders. Not the rest of them."

Rongar points firmly at Dim-Dim and holds up his hands, refusing to take the blame.

"I know. That's why you're off the hook."

Dim-Dim chuckles. He's not a regular member of the crew and not held by the same rules—not that Doubar or Firouz seem to care about disobeying, either. "You needed my help, so I came."

"What help did I need?" As far as Sinbad knows, the only help he needed was Maeve's. She burned the sickness from his veins and cauterized his wounds. She killed the demons and set everyone free. What did Dim-Dim do?

"A number of days ago. I knew you would need me, so I set out to find you. Doubar and Firouz had already left. Rongar wouldn't let me go alone." He beams at the Moor, who rolls his eyes in exasperation. "There was a mighty blast of magic—powerful, but unfocused. Haphazard. I knew you were caught up in it somehow. Rongar and I hurried, but these old legs aren't what they used to be and I knew we wouldn't get there before something bad happened. I had to send a warding spell out before us, warning off anything that would do you harm. By the time we reached the scene of the blast, everyone was already gone."

Sinbad lowers his mouth to press against Maeve's hair. Dim-Dim did save him—saved both of them. That was Maeve's blast of magic he felt, the disastrous explosion in the woods that left her unable to defend herself when the demon came. Sinbad submerged them both in the freezing lake, but the creature had no intention of abandoning her or leaving him alive. An unknown burst of magic scared it, and it took him alive rather than killing him and waiting for Maeve to leave the water.

"That was my fault," he says quietly. "I told her to do something her magic wasn't meant to do. She warned me."

Dim-Dim shrugs this off. "No blame is necessary. Her magic is unique. As I told her, fire isn't malleable. It is what it is. There was no way you could know that."

"Can you teach her?" This has been Sinbad's hope almost from the beginning.

"To an extent, yes, I believe so. If she wishes, of course. It would be an honor, and my writings a boon to future generations when the next fire-child comes along." He smiles.

"Ah, just so we're clear, you mean in another three hundred years, right?" Doubar says hesitantly. "Not nine moons?"

Dim-Dim chuckles. "Fire-children are not a lineage, no. Not to my knowledge. I have no idea what her children may be, but if you're taking bets that would not be mine."

Doubar looks appeased. "I just wondered. For the sake of the ship. I think we may want to invest in some new buckets, just in case."

Sinbad holds Maeve tight as the wind gusts cold, setting the fires dancing. "You can buy as many buckets as you like, but we need to think about getting off this mountain first."

Doubar frowns. "She's in no shape to make that trek, brother. I doubt most of these people are. I know the wolves want us gone, but I don't think it's safe to try just now."

Zara has been Maeve's silent shadow, keeping warm huddled near the fire. She shifts. "No one needs to risk the mountain if it's true the firestarter has a key."

A key. Right. "She did." He frowns, trying to think back. "I don't think I saw it in the cavern where I found her." He's almost positive he would have noticed that.

"A key? What key?" Doubar asks. "I say we butcher those deer the wolves gifted us. They'll feed this group, and then some. We can take shelter inside the cave until people are stronger."

Zara shakes her head. "No one is willing to go back in there. They'd rather freeze."

She's right; Sinbad doesn't have to ask. "And the women need healers." He only hopes the wolf-girl doesn't need help. It was her choice to leave, but even so.

"We do," Zara agrees, "but not so urgently as before. The firestarter helped." She smiles.

Sinbad doesn't know what Maeve did, but he trusts Zara. Maeve healed him, after all. Not completely, but enough. He strokes her tangled hair. "In any case, we need to find that key. It's too powerful to just abandon."

"I agree." Zara rises. "I'll get some people to search the tunnels. No one will take shelter there, but they'll look for a key."

"We can look out here, too," Doubar says, rising to his feet. Sinbad wonders if he's realized yet that he's not talking to a human woman. "Ah...what are we looking for?"

She smiles. "A golden key about so big." She shows him with her fingers.

"Can you use it, if you find it?" Sinbad tightens his arms around Maeve's sleeping body. "I don't want to wake her unless I have to."

"I can."

Fair enough. Sinbad doesn't ask any more questions. He feels a little guilty for sitting with Maeve instead of joining the search, but he can't bear to let her go. He strokes her back gently, his palm gliding against rough, dirty wool. He wishes he had something better to wrap her in. Warmer—softer. Fine lambskin. Heavy velvet. Layers and layers of silk. He wants to sit with her once again in a tub of hot water, run his hands over her sweet, fair skin until she's clean and gleaming, warm and wet, soft and relaxed. Then take her to bed and love her mindless for days—weeks. They have far too much time to make up. Their separation may have only lasted days, but it felt like eternity.

Dim-Dim sits quietly next to him. Sinbad will continue to complain about his crew disobeying orders, but in reality he's beyond glad to see them. "I never thought I'd see you again," he says honestly.

"I'm sorry, dear boy. Truly." The old man smiles gently. "You're too thin."

"I would have died without her." He nearly did. He's past danger now, he thinks, but recovery will take time. That's fine. He and Maeve can recuperate together. Whether in Odhran's palace or on his ship, he's not picky. As long as she's with him. "She said it was kismet, when we met."

"She was likely correct."

"You believe in fate?" Sinbad has always struggled with the concept. He likes to believe he's master of his own destiny. He doesn't like to think that his actions have been predetermined.

"I believe everything happens for a reason. Is that fate?" Dim-Dim shrugs. "You tell me."

"Did you know I would meet her?" Sinbad watches his old mentor with dawning suspicion. The man has a history of premonitions, and is notoriously tight-lipped about what he sees.

The old sorcerer laughs. "No. I knew you would be changed by this journey, and you are. She's changed you. I suspect you've changed her as well. But I didn't foresee a fire-child. Nor, for what it's worth, have I ever heard of one sailing. They're notoriously averse to water." He glances at the sleeping girl.

Sinbad grins. "I have to teach her to swim."

"And be quick about it," Dim-Dim agrees. "She's far too rare a treasure to risk over something so mundane."

He will. He suspects this may be one area where she's not at all an apt pupil. It's fine. They'll pull through. He's not afraid of her temper, and submerged in water what could she possibly do to him?

"Sinbad." Tetsu draws near. "Dim-Dim." He nods at the old sorcerer. "I'm going back in the tunnels to help look for this key. I wanted to check with you first."

"I didn't see it anywhere. I'm sorry." He wishes he had. But Maeve's clothes had long burnt away by the time he reached her, so she had nowhere to put a key. "Do you want me to go with you?" The tunnels aren't safe since Maeve's fire burned through them. He doesn't want to leave her, but for Tetsu he will. The ronin kept him alive and gave him faith while they were trapped. He'll do anything for him and Rolly.

"No. You stay with your firestarter." Tetsu offers him a small smile. "I did not entirely believe you when you said she was yours. But you've finally picked one, it seems."

Sinbad smiles. "I did." The best one. The only one.

"For a man who claims a samurai and a Moorish prince as brothers, a Celt wife with strange fire-magic is hardly surprising." Tetsu bows slightly. "I wish you all happiness, brother."

As the ronin turns, Sinbad kisses Maeve's hair. She's his love, yes. His girl. He suspects marrying her will be a bigger struggle. Her vow to her queen looms in the fore of his thoughts. What if her ruler won't release her?


	16. Chapter 16

_I think this is the next-to-last chapter!_

**The Mountain**

Pairing: Maeve/Sinbad  
Rating: M (language, sex, violence)  
Setting: Alternate  
All standard disclaimers apply

* * *

Sinbad dozes. He knows he shouldn't, but he's too tired to fight it. His head drops forward to rest upon Maeve's, huddled against him as she sleeps. The front of his body feels warm as he sits wrapped around her, close to the crackling bonfire, but his back freezes in the bitter chill of the mountain. He's vaguely aware of the goings-on around him as his mind drifts, exhausted and at peace. A group of former captives led by Tetsu go back into the mountain to search for the missing key—something he's surprised so many willingly do, human and Fae alike, but they have faith when Zara says she can get them quickly off the mountain if they find it. Another group searches the clearing and the forest around it, aided by his crew.

A lull steals over the little clearing, a quietly weary hush. Sinbad understands. Joy will come later—right now everyone is just too tired for elation, many still numb with shock. Some of these people have been captive underground for half a year or longer. After living so long in the dark with fear their constant companion, the sudden jolt of Maeve's explosion and now the reality of the desolate, freezing mountaintop dulls their joy. They'll feel it—later. When reunited with their loved ones. When they finally rest at home, safe and warm. Until then, they exist in uneasy limbo, an exhausted stillness after the constant terror of the caverns. Removing that terror is a gift, yes. But these people aren't able yet to replace that terror with anything else.

Sinbad isn't himself in quite the same situation. He has his crew. His girl. He was so sure he would die under the mountain, and he would have without Maeve's magic. Now he has his life back. Dim-Dim sits beside him, gingerly stretching his weary old legs. He can hear Doubar grumbling as he pushes through the underbrush, dumping snow on his bent head. Firouz laughs and gets a handful of snow to the face in retribution. Maybe most importantly, Maeve rests warm in his arms. She's heavily asleep, but alive and unharmed as far as he knows, save the loss of the child she bore. The passing of what might have been stings, but Sinbad is better off by far than the rest of the captives and he's grateful. He has far, far more than he lost.

He dozes off and on, falling in and out of an exhausted haze. The soft, gentle scent of woodsmoke and honey soothes him. He'll never get enough. He slips a hand under Maeve's blanket to stroke her skin. His fingers glide along her smooth hip, her sleek ribs. He knows he's dropped weight locked up under the mountain, and he swears she has, too. His hands know so intimately the slide of toned muscle under silken skin, and he can feel the difference without looking. She'll probably be starving when she wakes. He is now, but there's nothing to eat unless they do as Doubar suggested and butcher the bucks gifted to her by the wolves, a long and messy process no one is keen to start unless they have to.

He withdraws his hand, tucking her blankets firmly around her body once more. She's warm to the touch but still shivers lightly; he doesn't want to chill her. He needed the reassuring touch of sweet skin for a moment, but he can control himself. Until she's warmer. Until they're alone and he can love that perfect body properly.

The crunch of tired feet on shattered rock echoes from the cave mouth, and a moment later the search party emerges. Blankets cover their shoulders and they carry more in their arms.

"Look what we found!" Tetsu and several others bring blanket-wrapped bundles that clink like metal to the side of Sinbad's fire and unroll them on the ground.

Weapons. They found the weapons taken from them when they were captured.

"No key," Zara says as she hands blankets to the quiet crowd that presses close. "Easy, don't shove. Take your blades and move aside for the next person."

Most of the collected weapons are hunting knives like the one Maeve carries, as well as a welter of unstrung bows. Several staves. The only swords are Sinbad's saber and Tetsu's katana, which doesn't surprise him. These people are hunters and scouts, farmers and tradesmen, not soldiers or warriors. He rests his mouth against Maeve's hair, wondering if she knows the sword. She doesn't carry one, but it wouldn't surprise him to find she's had at least some training. Not that she needs it; she's deadly all on her own.

Tetsu sets Sinbad's weapon beside him and crouches next to the welcoming warmth of the flames. He opens his palms, letting the heat burn through him.

"Thank you, brother. I would have been unhappy to lose that blade permanently." He'd have to have another made, which can take months and an ungodly amount of money, but he refuses to trust his life to a possibly inferior product from some random bazaar.

"I know it." Tetsu belts his own sheathed sword at his waist, the long, slender, gently curved blade that marks him as a samurai. He inhales slowly. "We found no key."

"I heard." Worry twists Sinbad's stomach. They need to find that key. Leaving such a powerful object lying around is asking for disaster. He doesn't need to be a sorcerer to understand that. And these people badly need to go home. They need shelter and food and warmth. Healers. Their families. "You found blankets, though. Weapons. That's something."

"Aye. But nothing else." Tetsu stretches his legs, rising to his feet once more and turning, letting his back warm as his front freezes. "We looked for the grain stores, the bowls. Anything else that might be of use. They must have been closer to the explosion. We found plenty of ash. Nothing more."

Not finding the stores of grain might be a blessing. Eating such badly spoiled food can't be healthy, though it kept them alive. Sinbad doesn't know if he'll ever be able to stomach barley again after this. Wheat is more expensive but he and his crew will probably make the switch.

And at least they found their weapons. Sinbad has to be grateful for that. Maeve shifts in his arms, exhaling a deeper sigh against his throat before subsiding again. She's a mess, grimy and sooty, her lovely hair dark with smoke and tangled to hell. She's split the knuckles on her dominant hand recently, and a violet bruise has appeared along her left cheekbone. He thinks she's perfect. The most beautiful thing he's ever seen. Even the inhuman Fae can't compare—not in his eyes.

Rolly emerges from the brush, Rongar just behind him. They pause their search for the key momentarily, returning to the fire to warm themselves. Doubar and Firouz, snowy to their eyebrows, follow.

"What happens if we can't find that key, little brother?" Doubar brushes snow from his beard. "This is where she turned to flame, right over here. Figured that was the best place to start looking, but I don't see it anywhere. With all this snow churned up we could be right on top of it and we'd never know." He scowls as snow melts and drips slushily from him. "I am never traveling this far north again. I refuse."

He's said this at least seven times that Sinbad can count, and probably more before the rescue. Sinbad gets the point. Doubar is not a northerner, nor a mountaineer. He wants to go home. Sinbad does, too—now that he knows Maeve is willing to come with him. He'll go wherever she wants, do whatever she asks. Anything to make her happy.

Rolly rubs his hands on his filthy trousers before holding them up to the heat of the fire. His mouth quirks as he looks at Maeve's bare foot, still resting gently in the flames. "I know who she is and that's still unnerving." He lifts another branch from the pile beside him and breaks it, tossing the wood on the fire. "You're fire's consuming wood faster than the others. She must still be getting energy from it somehow."

"She's cold." Sinbad feels one side of his mouth curl in a helplessly tender smile. "Not by our standards, but she plays by different rules."

"That's for sure." Doubar chuckles. "You're going to have a hell of a time getting that one to take orders from a captain, you know."

No, he won't. Maeve doesn't obey anyone unless she wants to, and he sees absolutely no reason to attempt to make her. It's a battle he will not win, so he doesn't plan on even trying.

Rolly scratches his chin. "I'm not going to recognize anyone once the beards come off."

"Mine stays," Doubar says firmly.

"No doubt, friend. That's a thing of beauty, not necessity."

Doubar beams. "Not just any man can grow whiskers so thick."

Sinbad's is coming off the minute he has access to hot water and a sharp blade. He doesn't know how Doubar stands it. Of course, even on board ship he and his men are never as filthy as he feels right now. Not quite.

Well, he reconsiders. He's shaving it off unless Maeve disagrees. He'll stay as hairy as she wants, if she likes it. He loosens his grip slightly as she moves in her sleep. One bare arm slips out of her blankets to curl lightly around his neck. She's warm, so incredibly warm, and he loves the heat of her soft palm against his skin.

"That is disgustingly cute," Doubar grumbles. "I did mean it, though. What happens if we can't find that key?" He looks at the crowd of people huddled around the campfires and still picking through the underbrush, searching for the lost key. "A couple of deer will go far with this lot, but a hot meal won't cure everything."

Yeah, that's Sinbad's concern, too. He doubts the werewolves will attack them if they have to face the trek down the mountain, but many of the captives are weak and the women, especially, are not dressed for the weather. What happened to their original clothing he doesn't know, but their rough slave smocks and thin blankets are little protection from the aching cold of the mountain and they have no shoes besides. Maeve has her inner fire to keep her from harm, but the humans and Fae clustered here do not, nor do they have her innate strength. She can make that trek barefoot, bare-legged, in knee-deep snow. These others just can't.

"Can you sense anything?" Sinbad asks Dim-Dim beside him. "Anything at all?"

"No." His old master sounds regretful. "I wish I could, but Fae magic isn't like human magic. I'll spare you the details, but unfortunately I'm of no help in this instance."

Sinbad has no interest in the difference between human and Fae magic right now. He just wants that key. These people need to be indoors, out of the snow and the wind, and they all could use at least a quick check with a healer. He trusts Zara when she says the women's situation is no longer as dire as it was, but that doesn't mean they're completely well, and everyone is overworked and undernourished, men and women alike. He strokes Maeve's dirty hair, grateful that all it took to revive her was fire—something he could give her quickly. If she needed a Fae healer or something else unavailable, he's afraid she would have died. Her inner fire is too integral to who she is, part of her being, her soul. He doesn't think she could have survived much longer than she did without it.

She got what she needed, but the rest of these people haven't yet. He holds her close, turning his head to kiss her forearm where it rests against his throat. Doubar can keep his tame southern girls; all Sinbad ever wants is right here.

"We should wake her, little brother," Doubar says, arching his back and stretching slowly, cold muscles tense and aching from hunching over, searching the ground with eyes and hands for any glimmer of gold. "Maybe she lost it somewhere else. We could be searching for something that isn't even here."

No. Absolutely not. He almost lost her today. Her inner fire went out, and he's positive she would have died if he and Tetsu hadn't carried her to the bonfires so quickly. She's exhausted and still shaking despite the reassuring heat of her skin. He doesn't know if disturbing her sleep is dangerous and he doesn't want to find out. "You try it and I'll have to find myself a new first mate."

"And it starts." Doubar rolls his eyes. "Be reasonable. I know your head's in the clouds right now, but at least try. I'm not asking her to fight again. She doesn't even have to move. I just want to know if she can tell us where that damned key is."

"My head is not in the clouds." Sinbad frowns. He knows perfectly well where he is. He's on a fucking mountain, sitting in the snow. Rongar and Firouz exchange a knowing look that he chooses to ignore. "You didn't see her when I found her. She was almost dead. I'm not risking that again."

"_Was_. Not _is_. You dumped her in the fire, which is an image I will never get out of my brain." Doubar grimaces. "She talked. Agreed to come with us when we sail. She's fine, Sinbad."

"No." He refuses.

"We may be at that point, my friend," Tetsu says, soft eyes flicking over Maeve's sleeping form.

"No."

"Please, Sinbad." Rolly crouches near him. "You have your girl. I'm happy for you, truly I am. But I haven't seen Senna since summer. Or my baby. I'll cross the world to reach them if need be, but I don't want to waste that time if I don't have to. _Please_."

Sinbad scowls. He understands—he does. And he can't refuse Rolly anything. He and Tetsu kept him alive down in the dark, easing his wounds and his spirit. He doubts he would have made it through without them.

But Maeve.

He turns to Dim-Dim, searching for the reassurance only his old master can give. "Will it hurt her?"

"I don't see how." The old sorcerer squeezes his shoulder. "I am no expert on fire-children—no one is. They're too rare. But I can't imagine that waking her briefly would do any lasting damage. She can go back to sleep again right away, and in fact probably will if overextending her magic works as it does for other humans."

"She's not some delicate little flower, Sinbad," Doubar says at his other side. "She wouldn't like you treating her as if she is. Even I know that."

Sinbad knows. She's the toughest woman he's ever met, by far. He just wishes he knew more about her magic, the limits of what she can safely do, what he can ask of her. He suspects she may not even know, and that this may be an area where Dim-Dim can help. Later. Once she's fully recovered.

Right now, everyone else is right. He knows it, and he hates it. He strokes her warm cheek gently with his thumb. Nobody butts in, nobody tries to touch or rouse her. That's good. They'd lose a hand if they did. He touches his lips lightly to her forehead. "Maeve. _L__eannán._ Can you hear me?"

She doesn't move.

He rubs her shoulder over the rough blanket and once again vows to wrap her in something better as soon as he can. His own naked body sounds like a fabulous option. "Come on. Open your eyes. We need you."

She ducks her head further into his shoulder, hiding from the touch of his cold fingertips on her cheek.

"I know. I'm sorry. Just for a minute, and then you can go back to sleep."

She groans softly and withdraws her arm from around him, tucking herself back into her blankets. "Go 'way," she grumbles without opening her eyes. He thinks she's adorable, and he will never, ever tell her so. He knows better.

"Come on. Open your eyes, _l__eannán_."

She doesn't budge, but she inhales deeply. A moment later her voice croaks out of her, hoarse with sleep and groggily cranky. "Do you even know what that means?"

He smiles. No, but he knows enough. "I know you wouldn't let the iceman say it. But you let me."

"Mm. He is pretty icy. You're warmer." She tucks herself closer to his throat and burrows against him.

Sweet thing. Waking her doesn't seem to have caused any immediate harm, though she's tired and grouchy. "Hold on. You can't go to sleep again just yet."

"Why not? I'm cold, Sinbad. Tired."

He flicks his eyes to her foot, still firmly lodged in the fire. Their fire is consuming wood faster than the others, which means she's taking energy from it as Rolly observed. He can feel her inner fire, small but bright, which tells him she's not in danger, though she is uncomfortable. He cups her cheek in his palm and lets her remain pressed against him. He'll wake her if he has to, but he won't let go. "Listen. You had an emergency key with you when we left Odhran's clan. Do you know what happened to it?"

"Dunno. Ask me tomorrow." The words trail off as she drops swiftly back towards sleep.

"Maeve," he says, a touch sharper. Fuck, he hates this. She can't concentrate, can't stay awake. She needs fire and sleep, not this constant badgering.

Her body jerks in his arms as his voice pulls her forcefully from the edge of sleep. "What?" she snaps.

Rongar reaches into the pack by his feet, extracting a round of barley bread. He offers it wordlessly to Sinbad.

Sinbad takes the food. It's frozen and probably stale, too, but he breaks off a piece and offers it, holding it to her mouth. "Try this."

She pushes his hand away. "I said tired, not hungry. Are you deaf? My Arabic isn't that bad."

It's shockingly good, actually, for a woman raised so far from his world, but that's not the point. "The key, _l__eannán_?" He hates prodding her like this, but they have to know.

Finally one weary brown eye opens. "You," she says, "are never getting fucked again."

Would she say that if she knew how many people were listening? Probably, Sinbad decides. He ignores their attempts to hide laughter behind their hands. "The key. If we find it, we can get off this mountain. You can sleep in a real bed and no one will bother you, I promise."

"I have it." She shifts wearily in her blankets, fighting to stay awake. He feels her arm move. A moment later both dark eyes snap open. "Where'd my leathers go?" She's exhausted but accusing, and her head rises from his shoulder for the first time since she fell asleep.

He can't help it. He really can't. She's angry, but no matter how hard he tries he can't keep a straight face. He hopes the beard hides it at least a little. "I didn't do it. You may be fireproof, but your clothes weren't."

"Oh, fucking _hell_." She's livid. At who, exactly, Sinbad's not sure. At him for waking her, yes, but other than that he won't even try to guess. "Do you have any idea how much that amount of leather costs? How long it's going to take to get boots made?"

That's what she's grumpy about? He tightens his arms around her waist, determined not to laugh. "Isn't ruining clothes sort of an occupational hazard for you?"

"Shut up."

"I just mean that if your queen sent you to rescue these people, she should pay for whatever got destroyed in the process."

Maeve calms and settles, her warm cheek coming to rest on his shoulder once more. "You're right. She should." She yawns into his collarbone. Behind them, Doubar snickers. "But no idea about the key." Her anger is gone as suddenly as it appeared, sleep hovering close once again. "Sorry," she mumbles, hugging her blankets close. "Was on m'belt…" She's out again.

Sinbad tightens his arms around her, feeling frustrated. Waking her didn't seem to hurt her, but it got them nowhere. She doesn't know where the key ended up any more than the rest of them do.

"Don't ask me to do that again," he says firmly. She needs to sleep. They've already asked far too much of her.

Doubar laughs. "Aye. Who knows what she'll threaten you with next time?"

"There may be no need." Dim-Dim's hands fall to his waist and he unfastens the belt lashed over his cloak. It's so generic that Sinbad doesn't recognize it, but he recognizes the little horizontal sheath at the back and the handle of the hunting knife sticking out of it. "What are you doing with her belt?"

Nobody answers him. Dim-Dim's hands trace the tanned leather, pull the knife from the sheath and inspect it. No key. He flips the belt to reveal the paler underside. A hidden pocket of thinner, softer leather has been stitched carefully to the inside of the belt. He slips two gnarled fingers into the pocket and withdraws a little gold key.

Relief hits Sinbad hard. She didn't lose it. It's safe, which means they can get all these people off this fucking mountain. Now. "Zara says she can use that."

Dim-Dim hands the key to the Fae woman with a gracious nod and extends a hand toward Tetsu. "A little help, my boy? These old bones aren't what they used to be."

Tetsu pulls him to his feet.

"I can use the key," Zara says, "but first I need to know where to go." She nods in the direction of the crowd huddled around the nearby fires. "There are people here from several different clans and I don't know how many human villages."

"Odhran's," Sinbad says. He gathers his cold, aching muscles in preparation for rising. "The captain of the royal guard is there, and some of his soldiers. And a healer from Aven." Tending to these people and sorting them out is Lachlan's job. Maeve did hers. "Besides, Rolly needs to go home."

"We all do," Rolly says, but the tight, nervous movements of his body, the bright glimmer in his eyes tell Sinbad how anxious he is for this moment. He wants his family back, but he also fears the reunion. He left his toddler when she was still a baby. She won't remember him, and he knows that.

"Come on now." Doubar leans down and scoops his meaty arms under Maeve's knees and behind her back, lifting her from Sinbad's grip. "Everybody up."

"Don't," Sinbad protests, scrambling to his feet.

"Gods above, you're covered in blood!" Doubar barks. "Firouz!"

"I'm fine. It's old." Sinbad doesn't care about that. "Give her back."

"Easy, brother. You couldn't lift both of you from the ground at once, and I don't want you dropping my little sister." He hands her back carefully.

Sinbad clamps his jaw over his irritated words as he takes Maeve's limp, sleeping body. Doubar is likely correct, much as he hates to admit it. No longer fueled by the burst of fear he felt when he found her, his muscles don't want to lift two adult bodies. He can carry her for a short while, but he couldn't have risen without letting go.

Zara moves the little key as if inserting it into an invisible lock. She turns it, and magic blooms like water swirling in a whirlpool. It spreads from the key, coalescing in a wide, sturdy wooden door set in a stone archway. She releases the key and lifts the latch.

Around the door, Sinbad can clearly see the thin, skeletal trees and snowy mountain. But when Zara pushes the door open, she reveals a broad wooden balcony clear of snow and the sturdy wall of Odhran's mountain palace.

"Such a neat little trick," Dim-Dim says. "I'm delighted every time I see it."

The appearance of a door has everyone's attention. Sinbad lets Rolly and Zara lead. This is their mountain. He wants nothing more than to rest with his Maeve, to take care of her as much as she'll let him, then sleep uninterrupted for at least a week.

"All right—everyone out of the cold," Rolly says, cupping his hands around his mouth as he calls. "Humans, too. We'll get you fed and sort everything out on the other side. Bring those deer. Douse the fires. I don't think anyone will be wanting to come back here—ever." He stands aside and lifts his arm toward Sinbad, Maeve clasped tight in his arms. "Firestarter first."

Ordinarily Sinbad would hang back and make sure all was done here before walking through that doorway, but all the captives defer to Maeve. He kisses her forehead softly and steps through the door.

The change as they alight on the balcony is apparent not so much in temperature as in air pressure. Sinbad's lungs breathe deeply; he gulps greedily at the richer air. Odhran's clan may live high on the side of a mountain, but it's not nearly as high as the desolate, rocky landscape near the cave mouth. The air feels so much richer here, not so thin, and broad old trees surround the clan, sheltering the buildings somewhat from the bitter winter wind.

Odhran's mountain palace is a mixture of timber and smooth, rounded river rock, a large, rambling building of several floors. Maeve inhales a slow, deep breath; she doesn't wake, but Sinbad is sure she, too, can feel the change in the air. Snow covers the rooftops, but the balcony has been swept clean.

A sleepy sentry jerks upright as people begin to flood the balcony. He reaches for his sword.

"Wait!" Sinbad tenses, caught between two conflicting impulses. Normally he'd rush forward to engage, but his arms are full of a very tired woman who can't defend herself right now. "It's the firestarter."

The sentry pauses, full of doubt. Maeve's hair is dark with dirt and soot, and she's wrapped to the nose in filthy blankets.

"It's true," Rolly says, pushing forward. "Colin, it's me. Rolly."

The sentry blinks. "Rolly? I thought you were dead! Everyone said you were dead!" His hand drops from the hilt of his sword and he grabs the Fae man by the shoulder.

"I should have been. I would have been, if not for Sinbad and Tetsu. And the firestarter." He claps the man's shoulder. "She said some of the queen's guard is here?"

"Aye. Lachlan and ten of his men."

"Fetch them, and find Odhran, will you? It's time for them to take over. The firestarter did her job and she deserves her rest."

The sentry looks at Maeve, held tight against Sinbad's chest. "Does she need the infirmary? The healer from Aven is still here. Lachlan didn't want to send her home just yet."

Rolly glances at Sinbad, who shakes his head. He has no doubt Sorcha will want to check on Maeve at some point, but she's not badly in need of anything except warmth and rest. "No, but everybody else does. Is Senna here?"

"No—she went home several days ago. But—"

"Well, send someone to fetch her, fast. I have to stay with this lot for now, but I'm impatient." He somehow manages to smile.

Unwilling to argue, the sentry disappears into the palace.

Rolly gently ushers the refugees inside, away from the cold of the mountain. "Indoors," he says, watching as the exhausted crowd files slowly through one door and then another, from the mountain to the balcony, then the warmth of the palace. Zara is the last through, and she closes the door firmly behind herself. When she turns the key in the lock, the door disappears.

"Let's move everyone to the dining hall for now," Rolly says, ushering her into the building. "It's big enough to hold this crowd. The infirmary isn't."

"And alert the kitchen that they have two deer and a very hungry throng," Zara agrees.

"I have a feeling venison stew is on the menu tonight," Doubar says, rubbing his hands together in anticipation.

Sinbad doesn't care what he eats, as long as it's hot and filling. The palace feels blessedly warm after days spent hiking the frozen mountain and toiling under it. He breathes deeply, holding Maeve's body close.

The captive humans press tightly together, unsure of themselves in the heart of a Fae clan but too tired and too cold to protest. All they can do is trust Zara and Rolly, Sinbad and Tetsu. And Maeve. They know she freed them. They trust her. She may be unconscious but they'll follow her anywhere.

Before they get far, Lachlan rounds a corner at a jog followed by several of his men. To Sinbad he looks as sharp and pale as the ice outside. He halts, clearly unprepared for the sight of a large crowd of filthy people, both human and Fae, Maeve unconscious in Sinbad's arms.

Glacier eyes meet Sinbad's, cold and suspicious. "What did you do to her?" He strides forward.

Sinbad takes a firm step backward, arms tight around Maeve's unconscious body. "Don't." Were she awake she wouldn't want the iceman touching her, and he won't allow it. He stiffens his spine and tells himself he won't lose his temper. "I protected her to the best of my ability. Exactly what I promised Odhran I would do." He saved her life when he let himself be captured, and that was the extent of what he could do. He had no control over her choices after that. The iceman can blame him all he wants, but Maeve did this to herself.

Lachlan halts as he considers the situation. He can feel her inner fire; he knows she's not dead. If he thought she was, his sword would already be at Sinbad's throat. Sinbad watches the man with caution. They don't like each other, but they're supposedly fighting on the same side. Bringing Maeve back in this state doesn't exactly help his cause with the iceman, but it's not his fault. She did what was necessary to kill the demons and free the captives, her exhaustion just a natural result of the power she used.

"Little brother, who is this?" Doubar frowns beside him. "I don't like the look of him."

Yeah, neither does Sinbad. But he doubts Lachlan will cause a scene with all these witnesses around. "He's harmless." He hopes.

"Your Grace." Rolly pushes to the front of the crowd. "I'm a scout of this clan. Senna's husband. The firestarter saved us—killed the creatures holding us captive and freed everyone who still lived."

Zara steps forward and takes Lachlan by the wrist, lifting his ice-white hand and slapping the little gold key into his palm. "Your turn now."

Dim-Dim appears at Sinbad's side. "This may be a good time to make a judicious exit," he murmurs quietly. "We'll stay with this lot. The clan chief will want an explanation."

Right. "The clan chief is a good man," Sinbad says just as softly. "You can trust him."

"This one is a good man, too." Dim-Dim nods at the iceman attempting to make sense of Rolly and Zara both talking at him at once. "Just not good enough, I fear, for what he wants." He glances at Maeve.

Sinbad probably should feel bad for the man. After all, if their roles were reversed, he doesn't think he could stand it. But he loves Maeve too much to even consider being without her. He needs her.

To that end, he starts down the corridor once more and ducks around the corner before Lachlan can stop him.

Locating Maeve's little room in this rambling building takes some effort. Sinbad manages to find the dining hall with his nose. From there, he's able to remember the path to her chamber. It's not the most efficient route, but he makes it. When he finally kicks the door closed behind them, a sigh leaves him that takes all his energy with it. He tips her carefully out of the filthy blankets onto her bed and sheds his boots before climbing up after her. He wants a hot bath, but his body is just too tired right now. His clothes are stuck to him, adhered to his skin with dried blood, and it hurts when he tugs on the filthy linen. He gives up and leaves it. Later. He'll worry about it later. He gathers Maeve close and pulls the heavy pile of fine, weighty blankets close around them. Yes, he's still filthy, but fuck, this feels like heaven. He lets his body sink into the feather mattress, Maeve curled close to his side, and knows nothing more.

* * *

The smell of food rouses him.

Sinbad blinks, groggy and still aching. How long did he sleep?

Not long enough. His body knows that much. He groans and digs dirty fingers into his eyes.

"At least one of you is conscious. That's a start."

He thinks he knows that droll voice. He forces his eyes open.

The sky outside the window is dark, but several warm lanterns light the room. Maeve is beside him, thank the gods, unmoving but warm, her inner fire strong and sweet. A female figure with pointed ears bends over her, smoothing dirty red hair from her forehead.

"Sorcha." His voice is a tired croak. He clears his throat experimentally.

She lifts her head and smiles. Her pale green eyes have almost no color in the lantern light. "Are you as water-shy as she is?"

He shakes his head to try to clear it and is rewarded with a wave of dizziness. "I'm a sailor."

"A filthy one. If you've infested this bed with bugs, the housekeeper will have your head." She sounds more amused than irritated, so Sinbad ignores the rebuke. He was too tired to worry about bathing before he crashed. He may still be.

"I smell food."

She nods at a small table near the door. On it sits a laden tray. Sinbad considers the distance of four or five steps. His muscles say that's an awfully long walk, but his belly wants that food.

"Maeve. Sweetness. Time to wake up." Sorcha shakes her shoulder firmly.

"Don't," Sinbad protests. "You have no idea what she just did." His voice cracks like a schoolboy's at the end and he frowns and clears his throat again.

"Hush." Sorcha pushes his quelling hand away. "I have a very good idea of what she just did, thanks to your friends. What do you think I've been doing while you were sleeping, twiddling my thumbs? She needs to eat. Go fetch that tray."

Sinbad is captain of his own ship and not used to taking orders from anyone, but Sorcha isn't to be ignored. He goes. His legs shake, but they take his weight and bear him across the room and back.

"Oh, good gods." Sorcha leaves Maeve's side and strides swiftly to him. "Why didn't you tell someone you were injured? You can't just leave wounds like that to fester!"

Sinbad glances down at the dried blood coating the front of his clothes. "It's fine, it's an old wound now. Maeve fixed it." He can still feel the gouges in his gut, but it's nothing like the pain before. He's far more interested in the tray of food. The healer brought big wooden bowls brimful of steaming venison stew, just as Doubar predicted, thick with root vegetables and hearty chunks of meat. A high, round loaf of hot brown bread—wheat, not barley or rye, he can tell by the smell—and butter, hard cheese, apples, and steaming mugs that smell faintly herbal.

"Maeve has many wonderful gifts, but she's not a healer." Sorcha tugs gently on the linen of his shirt, finding it stuck to his skin. She curses under her breath and hands him one of the mugs from the tray. "Drink before you eat. Dandelion root and chicory will settle your stomach so you don't bring your food back up again."

He doesn't feel like he would anyway, but he obeys. Sorcha steps into Maeve's private bathing room and returns with a bucket of hot water and a handful of linen rags. She wets one and sets it on his blood-soaked shirt. "I don't have time to wait around for you to bathe, so this will have to do. I need to get a look at that, and see if it has to be stitched."

Sinbad doubts it does. He doesn't know exactly what Maeve's fire did, but he can tell from the way his gut feels that the wounds are no longer open. He holds the wet rag against his gut with one hand and drinks the hot tisane with the other. It doesn't taste good at all, kind of like dirt, actually, but it isn't rancid barley so he refuses to complain.

Sorcha moves back to Maeve's side. She's a light sleeper, like him, but not today. After everything she did to free the captives and kill the demons, she's dead to the world. If it were up to him he'd let her sleep until her empty stomach woke her on its own, but Sorcha has other ideas. She shakes her shoulder and taps her cheek sharply with a finger.

"Come on, dove. I know you're tired, and you have every right to be. But you need to sit up for me."

"Fuck off."

Sinbad hides a smile behind his mug. Of course the first words out of her mouth were a curse.

Sorcha rolls her eyes. "Don't be dramatic. I have a crowd of very tired people in the dining hall, and a few in the infirmary who need more care. My time is limited, but I need to at least check on you."

Honey-dark eyes unwillingly open. "I'm fine. Just tired. Let me sleep."

"You can sleep all you like, but you have to eat first. You'll hate the headache you'll wake up with later if you don't."

Maeve whines softly through her nose, a final protest, but she slowly drags herself to a sitting position, tucking the fine white linen sheet under her arms.

Sorcha pulls the laden tray closer and hands her the other mug. "Drink. Sinbad, is your shirt loosened yet?"

He tugs experimentally on the bloody linen. "Sort of?"

She returns to him and unwinds his hijam with swift hands. The final wrap is still stuck, and she re-wets the rag and places it over the red fabric to soak. Sinbad shrugs his shirt off his shoulders and gingerly eases the bloody fabric away from his skin. He can feel Maeve's eyes on him, watching as he exposes the gashes the demon left in his gut.

Sorcha hisses in sympathy as the wounds are revealed. It's the first time Sinbad has seen them in the light. They look awful, red-black lines clawed across his abdomen, deep bruises flanking each wound.

"You cauterized this?" Sorcha looks at Maeve in surprise.

"I guess." She sets her mug down and reaches for her bowl. Her hands visibly shake, but she holds it firmly. "I can't explain it, but I wasn't going to let him die."

"It's good work." Sorcha pries the last fold of Sinbad's hijam loose, revealing the rest of the gashes. She prods gently at them with a fold of the rag. It hurts, but not like before. "Very good. You're not healed, and I don't want you haring around as if you were. But you're on your way." She drops her hand and straightens. "Wash them gently but thoroughly every day. I'll send someone up with a healing salve to help things along. You'll have some excellent scars once they've healed up, and the story to go with them."

Sinbad smiles. "Thanks." He breaks open the steaming loaf of bread and dips a chunk in his bowl. He doesn't like butter—that's a northerner thing—but the rest of this is excellent and he's not letting a drop go to waste.

"Are you sure you're okay? Nothing broken?" Sorcha eyes Maeve as she inhales her food.

Maeve rolls her eyes. "I split my knuckles on a werewolf's teeth. You want to kiss it better?"

"Don't talk with your mouth full. And I'm shocked you have any skin left on your knuckles, what with all the hitting you do."

Maeve grins, unrepentant. "People are annoying. Less so when they're bleeding."

"You're a terrible lady-in-waiting. You know that? Riona should be happy to be rid of you." Sorcha kisses her dirty head. "At least make an attempt at washing before you go back to sleep."

Sorcha leaves, and Sinbad relaxes, letting his body slump back against the headboard. Maeve sets her empty bowl aside and curls close, running her fingertips lightly along his bruised skin. "I didn't realize how bad it was." Her touch is infinitely gentle.

"I would have died without you." He slips his arm around her, his palm gliding down the length of her bare back.

"I know." Her fingers trail up his abdomen, stroking gently through the sparse curls of his chest hair. "I'm still mad at you for leaving like that." Her voice is quiet, her touch soft—he doubts she's actually angry anymore, no matter how much she was earlier.

"I won't leave you again." Never. He knows she loves him, so she's stuck with him now.

"You better not." She kisses him gently, her mouth soft against his. She's everything he ached for during his time beneath the mountain. "You're mine now." Her fingers wind through his hair, pulling the greasy, matted strands away from his face. "I fought for you. Rescued you."

He kisses her mouth. "You did," he agrees. Sweet, fierce thing. "I knew you could."

She nestles close, tucking her warm body against his. "Just don't make a habit of being captured by monsters, okay?" She yawns. "I don't want to have to keep doing it."

"Deal." At least he'll try. In his line of work, he can't make any promises. "_L__eannán_, we probably shouldn't fall asleep again just yet."

"Why not?" Her body is already slack against his. They're sitting up, propped against the wooden headboard, but she doesn't seem to care; she'll be asleep in another moment.

"Sorcha said to wash."

"Sorcha can go to hell," she mumbles.

"Come on, sweetheart. I know you're tired, but you'll feel better clean."

"Make me."

That sounds like a dare to him. He rises, aching muscles complaining at each movement, and slips his arms under her warm body.

"Hey!" She bleats a protest as he lifts her. "What the hell?"

"You said to make you. So I'm making you." His arms shake and threaten to give way, but it's only a few steps to the beaten copper tub in the tiny washroom. He sets her in the basin and plugs the drain.

"I hate you." She glares from under the curtain of her filthy hair.

"No, you don't." He strokes her cheek. He knows how she feels about him—when they merged in the caverns, she held nothing back. She couldn't hide how she feels any more than he could. "Show me how to work this thing. The sooner we get clean, the sooner you can go back to sleep."

Grumbling the whole time, she reaches for the valve and lets the hot water flow. Sinbad steps into the tub on shaky legs and sits behind her, drawing her warm body to his chest. She sinks back against him, the tension flowing out of her as his arms encircle her waist and the tub swiftly fills with hot water.

This is heaven. Exactly what he wanted for so long, trapped in the dark, freezing caverns under the mountain. He wanted health, heat, and his girl. Now he has all that and more.

Despite her previous grumbling, she melts against him as the hot water hits her body. He runs his hands slowly up her ribcage, covering her soft breasts with his palms. She presses into his touch, exhaling a sigh of pure pleasure. Such a beauty. She's perfect, and she's all his. He nips lightly at her shoulder. "Shut the water off, or we'll flood the place. Odhran wouldn't like that."

She barely moves, reaching up with her toes to close the valve. Sinbad finds the cake of white soap blindly and lathers his hands, then gently runs them over her wet skin. She melts into him. Sweet thing. No one else will ever know how incredibly sweet she can be. She prefers to be the tough girl, and that's fine. He'll never tell. He likes that he gets this side of her all to himself.

Her skin shines softly in dim lantern light, rosy pink and ripe peach, softer than wet silk under his touch. He washes her gently, hands moving slowly over her body, his whole attention caught by the slide of skin on skin, the smell of soft soap, her own sweet scent. The water turns murky dark as he cleans caked dirt and soot from her sweet flesh. His hands dip below the waterline, lifting one sleek leg gently. She's banged up, dark bruises marring her perfect body here and there, and as he washes her he finds several spots where wet leather rubbed her raw. He strokes the back of her knee tenderly, feeling the rough touch of chapped skin.

"Will Sorcha's salve help this, too?" He kisses her gleaming shoulder.

"Yeah." She yawns, eyelids drooping as she tucks her body against him. "I'm fine."

She seems to be—mostly. One of his hands drops, gliding to the juncture of her legs. "You were pregnant."

She doesn't tense, doesn't stiffen against him. Her head nods, just once. "Yeah."

"Sorcha didn't say anything about it just now."

"Probably because you were there. She doesn't know you know." She slips her own hand between her legs. Her wet fingers rise coated in thick strings of dark, clotted blood.

"Does it hurt?"

"Physically?" She shrugs. "No worse than moon blood. The women from the caverns will be feeling worse."

He wraps his arms around her waist. That's not what he meant, and she knows it. "I'm sorry, _l__eannán_."

"Me, too." Her head leans back against his shoulder. "I don't know that I'm ready for a kid. But I would have loved him."

He tightens his arms around her. He can't truly understand what this feels like for her, and he gets that. As a man, all he can do is promise to support her. That promise has already been made a thousand times over.

"You'll be a good mother, when you're ready." He kisses her throat, the sharp line of her jaw. "Tough, but good."

She presses close. "I'd like to have you to myself for a little while first."

"Okay." That sounds good to him. Whatever she wants. If she was broken-hearted over this loss and wanted to be pregnant again immediately, he'd say yes to that, too. Whatever will make her happy. He strokes her sweet skin. He wants children from her, but he's not desperate. She can choose the timeline. As long as he gets to keep her, he's content.

"It was bad down there." She turns her head far enough to meet his eyes. "Wasn't it." It's not a question. She knows. When they merged, neither was able to hold anything back. She may not know the details of exactly what happened, but she knows the emotion, the raw terror of being trapped in the dark and the cold, waiting for his fate.

"Let me wash your hair." He pushes gently at her back until she scoots forward, dropping her head back into the water between their bodies. He supports her neck tenderly with one hand and combs his fingers slowly through the long, swirling strands, easing out the snarls. "I've been a captive many times," he says, voice weary, hands gentle. "This was the worst."

Her eyes flutter closed as he lathers her hair. "Do you want to talk about it?"

"Not now." Maybe he will later. Right now he wants to focus on the future, not the past. She's here with him, warm and safe. Dark circles mar her lovely eyes, a physical sign of her continued exhaustion, but they're together now. They made it through. "Do you know how much I love you?"

Her eyes flicker open as he eases her back to rinse the suds from her hair. They're so dark, lovely and deep. "I do." Her hand rises to stroke his bearded chin, one fingertip teasing the soft line of his lower lip. "I don't know what happened back there, when you touched my fire, but I'm glad it did. I was going to let you go."

He helps her sit up again, water streaming from her hair. "Don't you dare."

She smiles softly. Her hands cup his cheeks, thumbs gentle on his dirty skin. "Men say they love me. They don't mean it. This fire—it confuses people. Makes them think things. Feel things they otherwise wouldn't."

He knows. He felt her doubt when she entered him, and he understands. But he's not like other men. "Your fire never confused me. I knew what I wanted from the first."

"I know." Her soft thumb traces his mouth. An instant later she replaces it with her lips. She's gentle with him, as she would be with a frightened child, a spooked beast. Her mouth kisses his as her arms curl around him, touching his hair, his skin. She drowns him in love, her fire flaring warmer in response. It's deliciously perfect. He sucks gently on that lush lower lip, the first part of her he fell in love with. He swears he could spend a lifetime loving just that lip, but she's so much more than sweet kisses and hot skin. She's brave and funny, loyal and selfless. She has insecurities, yes, and inner demons of her own to fight. Everyone does. That doesn't frighten him. She tried hard to scare him off, but he knows better. She was running from the fear of what this could be. That's not a fear either of them have to entertain anymore. Whatever happened back there in the mountain, it silenced those doubts. They may not know how to build a relationship, but they know what they feel. They can do this.

They kiss for a long time. Without her inner fire, Sinbad is sure the water would cool around them. Despite her exhaustion, she keeps them warm. He doubts she has any control over it, but he loves the silky heat of her anyway.

When she finally droops against his chest, he smiles and gathers her close.

"Need to wash you," she protests, already half asleep.

"Next time." He helps propel her to her feet. She sways as water streams from her sweet body. He suspects it will take more than one bath to make either of them feel fully clean. He wants a boar's bristle brush to scrub his own skin with, particularly, but sees nothing like that here.

Her protests cease. She lets him wrap a linen drying cloth around her, and he pulls the plug on the filthy bath water, grateful that he doesn't have to empty it bucket by bucket like he would in a human village. If he had to do that, he'd just stay dirty another day or two.

She stumbles on weary feet as he leads her back to the tall bed, but she doesn't fall. He hovers close, hands ready to grab her if need be, but she makes it on her own. She drops the wet cloth and collapses into the soft pile of linen and fine wool. He scoops blankets over her, covering her well. She feels deliciously warm to the touch but he's learned that means nothing with Maeve.

"Are you still cold, _l__eannán_?" He leans over and kisses her forehead gently.

"Dunno. Too tired. Ask me tomorrow." She burrows into the soft mattress. "Don't leave me."

Never. "I just want to shave. Unless you like a man with a pelt."

She snorts. One dark eye opens, weary but amused. "Take it off. You're not Doubar."

"So glad you noticed." He's not clear on the details of how his crew and Maeve chanced to meet, but he's glad they did. He suspects she saved their lives. Dim-Dim saved hers—and Sinbad's—so he supposes they're even. He kisses her sweet mouth once more. "Sleep, _l__eannán_. I'll be with you in just a minute."

"Promise?"

"Always."

She's asleep before he straightens.

A smile curls one side of his mouth as he trudges back to the tiny washroom. That girl has him wrapped around her finger, and he doesn't care who knows it. He knows perfectly well that this temporary neediness will disappear as soon as she feels better, but while it's here it's a definite ego boost. She's the strongest woman he's ever known, and that she wants him, needs him, fuels his pride. He'll never tell a soul—this is for them alone. But fuck, it feels good to know she loves him as much as he loves her.

He draws more hot water and washes quickly, gentle with his wounds as Sorcha dictated. They're going to itch like hell in another few days, he knows from experience. He hopes whatever salve she gives him can help with that, too. Or, if not, that Firouz can concoct something. He borrows Maeve's knife to shave with, its edge wickedly sharp, and manages pretty well considering his tired clumsiness.

Finally he falls into bed beside her, face smooth once more, hair wet but no longer feeling like he's crawling with bugs. He spoons his body around hers gently, anxious not to disturb her. She's heavily asleep and doesn't even stir. He kisses the warm skin of her throat and nuzzles the sweet divot behind her ear. He can't fuck her right now, but that's okay. He'll live. He has everything in the world, everything he wants, tucked tight against his chest. The rest will come with time.


	17. Chapter 17

_I know, I know, this was supposed to be the last chapter. It was supposed to be just sex and tying up loose ends. And more sex. But then Sinbad cockblocked himself, Riona demanded screentime (she IS the queen after all), and everything got way out of hand. So here we are. Sorry, guys! _

**The Mountain**

Pairing: Maeve/Sinbad  
Rating: M (language, sex, violence)  
Setting: Alternate  
All standard disclaimers apply

* * *

Time flows hazily.

He sleeps deeply, his exhausted body finally giving in. He fought for so long in the dark under the mountain, battling sickness, battling wounds and the demons that inflicted them. Now, safe and warm in Odhran's palace, the woman he loves pressed close to his heart, he surrenders. He rests, body and mind. Everything switches off as he collapses into somnolence, tangled with a very familiar female body that radiates heat like the sun.

He thinks he hears Doubar's impatient growl at one point, and Dim-Dim's softer, calmer tones, but the sounds could so easily be a dream. He dreamed about his crew, his family, so often, down in the darkness below the mountain. Are they real now? Is anything?

The voices, he doesn't know. But one thing definitely is real. Even asleep he can smell the soft honey-smoke scent of Maeve, can feel her warmth bleeding through him like southern sunshine. He's certain of nothing else as he sleeps the sleep of the exhausted, but he knows she's with him. Nothing else matters. As long as she's near, he's at peace.

The gnawing of his empty, ravenous stomach finally rouses him.

Sinbad blinks, mind groggy and slow. The fumbling fuzziness of his foggy brain and bumbling body tell him he's been asleep for a very long time. His first instinctual action, as his clumsy limbs come back under his conscious control, is to tighten his arms around the warmth curled sweetly against his side. His muscles contract as his nerve endings fire, sending him a torrent of sensation. Hot skin. The soft pressure of someone else's body, a very female body, half on top of his own. A sleek, muscled arm wraps over his chest, the delicate hand beautifully possessive, palm pressed over his heart as if memorizing its rhythm in his sleep. Maeve's face is hidden under a welter of messy curls; his mouth curves in a hopelessly tender smile. He adores this girl. Everything about her. Even her bedhead.

His stomach protests again, trying to eat itself in the absence of any food. How long was he asleep?

Too long, his belly says. He moves one hand experimentally, drawing his palm down the sleek line of Maeve's back under the heavy pile of blankets. The curve of that gorgeous ass is gloriously warm as he palms it, squeezing gently. She stirs, mumbling thick, unintelligible syllables into the meat of his chest for a moment, then stills again.

How she has the softest skin he's ever touched despite the rough life she leads, Sinbad doesn't know. He stops squeezing but can't bring himself to move his hand, stroking her skin with his thumb. Her head shifts on his shoulder, red curls tumbling to the side, revealing her sleeping face. Pale winter light filters through the window, icing her fair skin with a snowy sheen. She's tucked under a pile of linen and thick, fine wool, but her bare shoulder and throat, the delicate line of her jaw, shine as if painted in silver. Her soft curls throb with vibrant color, a bright contrast to that icy, creamy-sweet skin. He wonders what she'll look like in another moon or two, as they board his ship and head downriver, back to the open sea and the south. She won't turn as dark as he is, but he's curious what she'll look like sun-kissed and golden. Beautiful, of course. He doesn't think she could ever be otherwise.

His belly cramps and twists again, angry with him for lingering. It wants food, not skin, no matter how beautiful. He ignores it. More important right now is the gleam of white snow-light on her perfect shoulder, the press of her breasts against him as she breathes. He kisses the shine of wan winter light just at the curve of her shoulder. The light is cold, her skin hot against his lips. He lingers, breathing her in, gathering her sweet body gently in his arms. His mouth travels along that line of skin, silk-hot and perfect. His tongue tastes her, smoky-sweet, clean skin and sleepy heat. If he's this hungry she needs food, too, but he can't bring himself to wake her. He'll get up and bring her something from the dining hall. She deserves her sleep.

Slowly, his body protesting every movement, he forces himself away from her perfect warmth. He untangles from her one reluctant limb at a time, hating the process of pulling away. The need to stay with her, to not be parted again, flares strong. But his stomach is nearly sick with hunger, and he has other responsibilities to think of, too. His crew is here. He's their captain even when not at sea, and he needs to at least check on them. They're in an unfamiliar place, and while he trusts that Odhran will treat them well, as captain he needs to see for himself. Maeve will be fine, he tells himself firmly as he stands, vertigo seizing him for a long moment. He shakes it off. She can sleep just as well without him. Maybe even better, he concedes, without his roaming hands to disturb her.

Step by step, his aching body makes it across the small room to the little bathing chamber. He shaved haphazardly before he fell into bed, but his cheeks feel scruffy again when he rubs them. That alone tells him he slept for a long time. He needed it, he allows, but he's not generally a layabout and he doesn't like feeling like one. He scrubs his hands and face with frigid water and soap, then borrows Maeve's knife to shave again. Clean water to drink and wash with feels like a luxury, one he won't ever take for granted again.

Looking in the little mirror, he sees the faint, lingering traces of the bite mark Maeve left on him what seems like ages ago, still visible on the side of his throat. He touches the light bruise with a fingertip and smiles. Bruises don't last forever, but he'd gladly wear this one until the end of his days.

"You want another one?" The soft voice is heavy with sleep.

Sinbad turns to see her leaning against the doorway, blinking as her eyes adjust to the daylight. She's deliciously bare. He can't stop himself, his arms reaching for that enticing skin. "I just might." She's hot against his damp fingers. He presses his mouth to hers gently. "I didn't expect you to wake so soon." She seemed deeply asleep when he left the bed, driven from her warmth by his stomach.

Sleepy, honey-dark eyes travel his face, the trace of a smile hovering over her soft mouth. "My pillow disappeared."

"I'm sorry." He lifts his mouth to press a kiss to her forehead. "I got too hungry to ignore. I was going to bring you a tray."

"It's just as well." She pushes him gently back to the mirror, touching her mouth to his bare shoulder, ending the soft kiss with a little nip of her teeth. "I think we slept through a day."

He suspects she's right. When Sorcha woke them to eat night reigned. Pale morning light shines through the window now, but his groggy body and scratchy chin tell him he slept for more than a few hours. "It's fine. We both needed it—especially you." He scrapes his soapy throat carefully with her blade.

She hides a yawn in the crook of her elbow. "I've never done anything like that before. I can't even say exactly what I did. I was just so angry, and I knew I had to stop those creatures."

He pauses, shifting the sharp blade away from his face to really look at her. "Are you okay?" She looks okay. Her milky skin isn't ice-white like Lachlan's. Right now a pale apricot warmth touches her, lingering heat from the nest of blankets she just vacated. She isn't trembling, and her bare feet stand firmly planted on the green slate floor. The dark shadow of exhaustion has disappeared from her eyes, and though she's still slowly waking up, the lassitude of a long sleep draped around her like a robe, he can't see any visible signs of ill health or weakness.

"I'm fine." She blinks those lovely tawny-brown eyes, shaking off the mantle of sleep. "But being cold is the worst. I won't make fun of anyone for it ever again."

"Are you cold now?" She's hot to the touch, her own sweet heat long restored, but he still worries. He'll wrap her in heavy wool or soft fur if she wants. Hell, she can jump into the massive hearth in the dining hall. Whatever it takes.

"No, not anymore. But it was awful." She scowls with the force of how much she disliked the feeling. "_Awful_."

He will not laugh at her. He will not. He forces his eyes back to the mirror, hoping the soap on his face hides the twitching of his lips. He doesn't want to fight before breakfast. "That's why you're coming south with me, _l__eannán_."

"Mm. I'm also very attached to that cock." She cups him shamelessly, squeezing just enough to firmly wake his body up. "I don't want to give it up."

Oh, gods, she doesn't have to. He curses and drops the knife. She can't play with him like that, especially not when he's holding a blade to his own throat. He presses her firmly against the wall, trapping her with his arms, his bigger body. His half-hard cock pushes into the muscle of her belly. "Behave, sweetheart. I'm trying to be good. To let you be."

She eyes him, hands hot on his arms. "Why?"

Is that a trick question? That isn't usually her style, but he honestly can't tell. "Because you're…" He trails off, grasping for a tactful way of saying it.

"Miscarrying? It's not a bad word." She rolls her eyes. "I told you, it doesn't really hurt. I wouldn't even have known if Sorcha hadn't said anything. I'd just have thought my moon cycle was a little late."

"And you also nearly died." His hands wind through those beautiful red curls, tipping her head back gently so he can see her eyes better. "Barely a day ago."

"Two days ago. I think." Her hot palms slide up his shoulders, her hands hooking behind his neck. "I don't remember a lot of the details, but I'm fine now." His face and throat, the usual targets for her teeth, are covered in soap. She nips his earlobe instead. "I ate. I slept. I got over it, and you need to, too. Being treated like an invalid gets old fast. I'm a terrible patient. Ask Sorcha."

He has no doubt she's a pain in the ass to nurse; he doesn't need anyone to verify that. Like him, she finds physical limitations aggravating and does her best to ignore them. The problem is when they catch up to her. "I don't ever want to see you like that again."

The irritated look she flashes him tells him he's treading very dangerous ground. "So, what? Are you saying you're never going to fuck me again because you think I'm made of glass now?"

No, that's not what he's saying. He doesn't think he could stop himself permanently even if he wanted to. "How about a week?"

The irritation in her eyes turns dangerous and her fire flares, pushing at him, that delicious heat prickling his nerve endings. He hisses and presses closer, his trapped cock pushing harder against her belly. Fuck, that feels good. Too good.

"You couldn't last a week, and I have no interest in making you," she says. Her hands drag down his sides, hot-sweet, coming to rest on his ass and pulling him hard against her.

"Five days," he counters, though he's honestly not sure he can last five more seconds if she keeps touching him like that, deliberately taunting him with her body, her fire.

"Nuh-uh." She shakes her head and digs her short nails into his skin.

Fuck, he likes that. Likes it far too much. He tilts his head and takes her mouth, kissing her hard, ignoring the soap smeared across his chin.

She welcomes him, her kiss hot and fierce, fingers flexing on his ass as he presses against her soft skin. He can't think, can't process logic as her fire consumes him, drowning him in heat, in pleasure. He wants to be inside her, wants to sink into that plush, wet softness, to hear her panting little cries, taste her pleasure on his tongue. For long moments, he honestly can't remember why he's bothering to fight this. She wants him. He wants her. What else matters?

Finally he drags his mouth from hers, her taste of smoke and honey marred by the bitter sting of soap. He presses his forehead to hers, breathing deeply, even the air tasting of her as he inhales her breath. "How about this?" he says, forcing his eyes open, taking her wrists gently in his hands and removing her grip on his body. "You go see Sorcha today. If she says you're fine, I won't fight you anymore."

She scowls. "I've never known a man to cockblock himself so fucking much for absolutely no reason."

He laughs, a little hoarse and out of sorts. Gods, he wants her. "Except there may be a reason. I know you don't think so, but the chance, however small, isn't one I'm willing to risk."

"Sorcha will grumble and complain. She'll grouse at me for wasting her time."

He has no doubt Sorcha can complain when she wants to, but he doubts the healer will protest Maeve checking in with her. After all, she came to them the other night. "That's my offer."

Maeve looks exasperated, but at least she's considering it instead of ignoring him outright. She could break his resolve and seduce him this minute if she really wanted to, he knows she could. With the combination of that body and her inner fire, he wouldn't stand a chance. She glares at him instead. "If I go see Sorcha, you can't come with me."

"Fair enough." He's not concerned with that. Maeve is too honest to lie to him if Sorcha tells her to take it easy for a while.

"And if I have to put up with her grumbling, you'd better make it worth my while."

"Do I ever not?" Many men may not care about or know how to please a woman, but he does.

"Not so far. It was just a warning." She smiles wickedly. "If you're making me go to Sorcha, I expect to be treated like a queen." She considers. "I take that back. Not a queen. A very high-priced courtesan."

"As you wish." He'll do whatever she wants, just as soon as Sorcha says he can. They often get rough, and he's not risking her if her body isn't ready for it. He licks the curve of her tempting lower lip, ending the touch of his tongue with a bite. She wants him; he can tell by the rosy flush of her skin, the way her lovely pink nipples harden beautifully against his chest. Her inner fire flares with an echoing ache as his teeth squeeze and then release her lip. He'll fuck her. He'll do whatever she wants—rough or gentle, hard and fast or all night long. But not until he knows he won't hurt her.

"An _e__xorbitantly_ high-priced courtesan," she grumbles as she reluctantly pulls away.

He can't help his smile. "How about high-priced but worth every cent?"

She considers, then nods. "Good point. I want a massage. Hands. That cock. Everything."

She can have all that anyway, she doesn't need to make deals with him for it. He kisses her shoulder and pushes gently on the small of her back. "I'll do anything you want, once Sorcha says I can. Now go dress. You have to be hungry." He clamps his jaw down, fighting through his own discomfort. She's given him blue balls before and will again, but this time he's done it to himself. He has no one else to blame.

* * *

At some point while they slept someone took their empty dishes and his bloody clothes away. Sinbad hopes he gets them back. He returns to Maeve's little chamber after shaving to look for the Fae leathers he wore last time he was here.

His mouth drops open.

She said she was a lady. _Sorcha_ said she was a lady. This is not news. Somehow, those comments didn't prepare him.

"What?" She glances at him as she runs an ivory comb through those perfect red curls. "My leathers burned, remember?"

Yeah, he remembers. He's not honestly sure what he expected her to don instead, but this...isn't it. Rich, thick burgundy velvet hugs her body, a color that turns her lovely skin to pure cream and makes her absolutely glow. He's shipped plenty of textile cargoes in his time and he knows the price of that velvet is astronomical. The red-brown fox fur that lines the long belled sleeves and floor-length hemline is darker than her own bright curls. A belt of hammered gold discs set with polished garnets accentuates her waist, hooking low in the front, the long end left to dangle enticingly just where the sweep of precious fabric hides the juncture of her legs. A gem he hopes to all the gods is another garnet and not a ruby hangs at her throat.

She pulls her red curls back, separating them into three strands by touch and braiding them loosely with deft, practiced hands. "Are you going to dress, or just stare at me all day? I thought you were hungry."

He was. He's not sure he is anymore.

He knew she was a lady. She told him so practically from the beginning. But to see her like this...does something to him. Something unwelcome. He fumbles for the leather and linen loaned to him last time he was here. She always looked at home in her Fae leathers, beautiful and capable. He didn't expect her to look just as comfortable in courtly wear. She describes herself as something of an outcast in Riona's court, itching to be away from the nonsense of palace life and political intrigue, but in this moment as he stares at her draped in finery he could never afford to give her, she looks every bit the competent high lady. Like she was born to this role.

"What's the matter?" She rises from her seat on the side of the bed, where she perched to slide matching velvet slippers on her feet. He's used to the confident sound of her footsteps in sturdy boots. Soft-soled slippers meant only for polished palace floors make no noise when she treads. "They'll give your clothes back once they wash them."

He doesn't care about his clothes. He doesn't care if he never sees them again. He watches her, unable to put voice to the sudden, very uncomfortable unease in his mind. She's so beautiful. She always is, but right now she looks exactly like the right-hand of a powerful northern monarch...which she is. She told him so. She never lied about that. It's his own fault for not listening, not really hearing what she was telling him until he saw it with his own eyes.

Her hands touch the waistband of his leather trousers and glide lightly up his bare sides. He holds his linen shirt in his hands.

"Does that still hurt?" She's gentle, her soft fingertips keeping well away from the worst of the gouges across his gut.

He shakes his head slowly, eyes still riveted on her. She shines like a gemstone, but she doesn't really look like his Maeve anymore. Something in him does hurt, but it's nothing physical, nothing she can touch.

"Let me." She kisses his mouth softly, then reaches for a little clay pot. Lifting the wide cork reveals a pale salve.

"Don't," he protests. "You'll dirty your sleeves."

She snorts. "Since when have I ever cared about that?"

Since never, but he's never known her to wear velvet and gems, either. Her long, belled sleeves brush his thighs as she applies the cool, buttery concoction to his closed wounds. She's gentle, her hands soft as feathers. The salve smells like herbs and beeswax.

"That should really be bandaged, but I don't think I have any spare linen in here." She frowns and bends to open the trunk under the window.

"It's fine." He shrugs the linen shirt on, studiously not looking at whatever she does have hidden away in there. More costly fabrics and gems? He doesn't want to know.

She turns back to him, frowning. "Something's up with you."

"I'm hungry." He's not. Not anymore. He doesn't know what he is. This feeling...it's not just uncomfortable. It hurts. It's not envy—he's never been one to care about material objects. He doesn't want the things she has. But he struggles to understand what he does feel.

Those lovely tawny-brown eyes narrow. His history with her may be short, but she knows him and she's difficult to lie to. She can sense bullshit from a league away. Her mouth thins as she presses her sweet lips together. "Don't you fucking lie to me."

He doesn't want to. He's not deceptive by nature. But this feeling is strange. He can't explain it, and he doesn't want to admit to it. His hands reach for her hips and encounter cold metal where he wants hot skin. Gold shifts, chinking softly under his fingers. The blood red, teardrop-shaped jewel just below the hollow of her throat winks at him as she breathes. That perfect skin was made to be draped in jewels; no one can tell him any differently now that he's seen it.

Those piercing eyes search him. She's keenly intelligent, and intuitive too, at least when it comes to him. She pushes closer, chest to chest. He can't see anything but those honey eyes. "You know me. Better than anyone does."

He does know her—part of her. He knows the warrior, the fighter. The lover. Gods, does he know the lover. But he doesn't know the courtier standing before him.

"You've been inside me." Her voice drops, a bare murmur as her lips brush his, warm as a breath of summer wind. She holds there, so close, speaking into his mouth as much as his ears. "And I've been inside you. I can't explain it. I don't know how it happened. Others touched me, down there in the caverns. They begged for the fire. Welcomed it. But I didn't enter them, didn't merge with them. That only happened with you." Her dark eyes meet his, travel the well-loved planes of his face. When she blinks, she's so close he almost feels the brush of her lashes against his own skin. "You asked me to come south with you. You can't take that back now."

He doesn't want to. He doesn't know how to be without her anymore. But he's not...all this. He's just a simple sailor. He desperately doesn't want her to regret this decision. "I'll never take it back. But you're a lady."

"Elevated, not born. This is a costume—what it takes to do my job." One side of her mouth curls in a sardonic smirk. "I'd have rather taken those leathers you're wearing, but then you'd have to go down to the dining hall naked." The tip of her tongue touches his lip, fire-sweet. "I don't want the other women any more envious of what I get to run away with than they already are."

His mouth opens, just a little. Just enough. His tongue touches hers. That sweet-smoke taste melts him, as always. The pads of her warm fingers trace along his smooth cheek.

"It's a costume, _l__eannán_. Nothing more." She kisses him slowly, taking his top lip between hers for a long, sweet moment. "What good would I be to a queen if I looked like a thug all the time?"

Slowly, slowly, his arms unbend. They circle her waist, pressing her body against his. Her clothes smell like the cedar wood of her trunk and the cloves meant to repel moths. Even that smell is expensive—he can't imagine the cost of cloves so far north. He settles his nose against her cheek and breathes her in instead. This sweetness is familiar. Adored. "You could never look like a thug."

She smiles. Her lips moue and she kisses the corner of his mouth. "You know me, Sinbad."

He does. He just has to have faith that the woman he knows, the woman who wants to be with him, is stronger than the courtier loyal to her queen. "I love you."

"So quit being weird." She bites his lower lip, harder than a playful nip. One thing he's learned about her—she likes using those teeth. If he didn't know better he'd almost suspect she had a little werewolf in her. "And put your boots on. I'm hungry."

He obeys. Another thing he knows about her, courtier or no: she gets cranky when she's hungry.

* * *

Breakfasters still linger in the dining hall when they arrive, the serving tables laden with food. Sinbad doesn't pay attention to anything else, his stomach homing in on the promise of a hot meal. He steps forward, but from his right a glad hail sounds.

He turns, a little grouchy at being interrupted in his quest for food. A small crowd of familiar faces perches on benches clustered in front of the huge fireplace. Maeve swiftly leaves his side, veering for them.

"Look who finally decided to join the living!" Doubar rises. "I wanted to wake you. Several times, in fact. Dim-Dim wouldn't let me." He frowns at the diminutive sorcerer at his side.

Maeve strides toward them, her steps purposeful and swift. The set of her shoulders and the curl of her fists tell Sinbad there's definitely something more than a glad greeting on her mind. She's dressed like a lady, but she's sure not walking like one.

"How's my little sister?" Doubar beams. "All anyone's been able to talk about the past two days is what you did out there. Did you know you caused an earthquake?"

She stares at him. Blinks. Then tightens her fist and punches his arm. Hard. "Your little brother is Sinbad!"

"Ow!" He rubs his shoulder in protest. "What was that for?"

She hits him again. "All that time I thought you were worried about some weak little kid! Some scrappy little human maybe Suni's age! Why the fuck were you worried about _Sinbad_?"

The rich velvet, the gold, the gems—suddenly they mean nothing. Sinbad steps swiftly to her side. The irritated timbre of her voice and her fierce stance is all Maeve. His Maeve. Not Riona's. She may look like a courtier, but she's a fighter to the core. Warmth bleeds through him as his earlier unease vanishes.

"You were worried about him, too!" Doubar insists. "And you didn't tell us, either! A man, you said. One you hadn't known that long."

"It was true!"

Dim-Dim claps Sinbad affectionately on the back. "I can see that things are about to get very interesting on board your ship." He laughs with delight.

"That's one way of putting it." Sinbad sets his hands gently at Maeve's hips, ignoring the belt of gold. He pulls her back a step. "Don't beat up your new big brother just yet, _l__eannán_. At least wait until you've had breakfast."

She desists, considering Doubar. "I've never had a brother before."

"Well, now you have...kind of a lot of them." Sinbad keeps his hands on her though it looks like her attack on Doubar is over. "Doubar, Firouz, and Rongar, of course. And Tetsu and Rolly." All of these men cluster around the fire, along with Senna. Rolly's arms hold his sleeping daughter against his shoulder and Sinbad doubts he's going to put her down anytime soon. "And the Adventurers. And I guess—"

Maeve sets a warm finger over his mouth. "I'm joining a guy's club. I get it."

"If you want a sister, there's always Talia, the pirate queen," Doubar volunteers.

Oh, no. Introducing Maeve to Talia would just be asking for trouble. Sinbad knows that without even considering the idea. They're both strong, iron-tough women, and fiercely independent in their own ways, but they won't get along. Maeve is as loyal as the sunrise. Talia...is not.

Her head turns, a slow smirk curling her full mouth as she looks at him. "A pirate queen? And you said you were an honest sailor."

He bristles. "I am. I just meet a lot of...interesting people in my line of work."

"That's for sure." Firouz laughs.

"So do I," Maeve says. "But not pirates."

"No. Just werewolves." A curl of red hair has escaped her loose braid. Sinbad wraps it around his finger and tugs gently.

She brushes his hand away. "Suni's a good kid. All he wanted was to find his sisters." Her smirk falls. "I hope he didn't get in too much trouble."

"I think by the end his alpha was willing to overlook his transgressions, considering the outcome," Dim-Dim says gently. "The boy was right to trust you. If he hadn't, both girls would have been lost, and more besides. I think Isari knew this, though he didn't want to admit it."

Doubar settles back on his bench. He has a mug of something hot beside him. "That 'good kid' offered to sleep with your girl, you know," he says to Sinbad, grinning as he lifts his mug.

Sinbad grimaces. He hates that Maeve is a target for so much male attention, but there's really nothing he can do about it. She's sinfully beautiful, and that won't change. Nor does he want it to. He'd love if Dim-Dim could teach her to control her fire a little better so everyone around them doesn't feel it when she wants his hands on her, but barring that, he has no wish to change her. Besides, she loves him. He knows that. What other men want can't change what they have together. "I'll save my energy for the idiots who won't take no for an answer."

She presses close, offering her soft mouth to kiss. "That's my job."

"I know, but you may need backup sometimes. And that's my job." He kisses her softly.

Doubar groans. "You have today, little brother. Then I expect the public kissing to be kept to a bare minimum."

"Who's captain here?" He has no intention of complying. Maeve is his, and he doesn't care who knows it. In fact, he wants the world to know it. He offers Maeve his arm. He's not a courtier, but this much he knows to do. "Breakfast?"

"Definitely." She takes his arm, patting Doubar affectionately on the shoulder as she passes, heading for the serving tables. From behind them, Sinbad can hear his brother's amused words. "Even dressed like a princess she hits like a man."

Damn right she does. Sinbad thinks he might be feeling a little bit better about this whole courtier thing. Doubar's right. She may look like a lady, but inside she's still herself.

He's starving, but he bypasses the steaming pot of barley gruel quickly, his stomach feeling a little queasy at the smell. He and his crew are definitely switching to some other grain. Wheat or millet or rice, he's not picky. Anything but barley. He loads a plate full of brown wheat bread, hard cheese, and greasy smoked goat sausage, rich with fat and spices. He looks warily at the steaming mug Maeve hands him. "What is that? The last herbal brew Sorcha made me drink tasted like dirt."

She laughs. "It's not herbs, it's spiced mead. Odhran must be feeling generous today."

"Mead?" He sniffs. The sour, fermented smell tells him what it is before her words do.

"Wine. The Fae make it from honey, not grapes."

Wine is definitely an improvement over herbs that taste like dirt. He takes the cup gladly. Now he knows what Doubar was guzzling by the fire.

They settle with their friends near the giant hearth. Sinbad balances his plate on his knees, watching as Senna rises and hugs Maeve tightly.

"Thank you," she says, swaying slightly as they embrace. "For bringing him back to me. To Aoife."

"All I did was kill some monsters. He's the one who managed to stay alive long enough to be found." Maeve pulls back and squeezes Senna's hands. Her face clouds. "I suspect many didn't."

"And yet many did," Tetsu says gently. He offers her a small, seated bow that looks far more graceful than Sinbad could ever manage.

"You're Tetsu." She smiles. "The one who's not a flying-carpet tamer. If we've met before, I apologize. My memories of the mountaintop are hazy at best."

"No apology is necessary. I was in the mountain with Sinbad and Rolly. I, too, would like to thank you for all you've done."

"Please don't." She waves his attempt off. "By the time I finally reached that fucking cave, all I wanted in the world was to kill those things."

Sinbad doesn't doubt it. Maeve has many admirable qualities, but patience isn't one of them. Searching the mountain instead of fighting the demons must have irked her deeply. She releases Senna's hands and smiles at Aoife curled against her father's chest. "How is she?" She glances at Senna.

Normally a parent in such a situation might offer the baby to hold, but Rolly does not. Sinbad doubts he's let her out of his arms much during the past two days. Rolly strokes her thick black hair and smiles.

"She doesn't remember him," Senna says, her jaw tightening as she braces against the emotion.

"But she loves honey, and I'm not above bribery." Rolly kisses his daughter's head, rocking her slightly. "I'm her favorite person right now." He won't ever be able to get back the lost time with his daughter, but he seems to agree with Sinbad and Tetsu—they need to focus on the future, not the past. What they have, not what they've lost.

Maeve settles at Sinbad's side, warm and smoke-sweet. As they eat, the others fill them in on what happened while they slept. The dining hall became a temporary refugee camp as Sorcha and all the clan's healers assessed the former captives. A mage was summoned from the Fae capital to assist in ridding the women's bodies of the demonspawn, completing the task Maeve began when she killed the creatures in their wombs. Two human men with festering wounds remain in the infirmary. Everyone else has been treated and released, the magical keys sending them back to their clans or villages.

Sinbad is glad for them all, but part of him wishes he had a chance to thank and say goodbye to some of the people who helped him under the mountain, particularly Zara. He hopes she's happy back in her home clan, with her friends and family.

"What happens now?" Maeve sets her plate aside, cradling her mug in her warm hands. She wears a gold ring of Celtic knotwork and another set with a red stone. "Will you go back to pretending the humans below don't exist?"

Rolly looks troubled. "I don't see how we could. We've been through too much together to pretend we haven't. This touches every nearby clan, every lowland village. So many lives were lost—no one was unaffected."

She chews on her lower lip, not a habit she's prone to. "When I entered the mountain, all the people—human, Fae, wolf—you all looked the same. It's hard to explain." She frowns, fighting for the words to describe something no one else in the world has ever seen. "You all had the same inner spark. The wendigos didn't. But everyone else. I couldn't tell a difference. There was none." She turns helplessly to Dim-Dim, her soft eyes searching for a better explanation than she can give.

The sorcerer doesn't disappoint. "You saw their souls," he says, smiling gently. "Bodies show differences—the color of an eye, the shape of an ear. The strength of a jaw. These things change from person to person, region to region, species to species, even age to age. Souls do not. They are immutable. No one knows where they come from before being born into this world, where they go after death. Religions have theories, but that's all they are. We just don't know. But the nature of a soul is constant, its presence and worth not bound by blood. We are as we are. It does not surprise me that, freed from the physical realm, we all look the same."

Maeve rests her mouth gently against Sinbad's shoulder, a sweet touch even Doubar doesn't grumble about.

"This animosity isn't limited to our mountains," Senna says softly, rubbing her sleeping child's back as Aoife rests in her father's arms. "It covers the world. Norsemen tolerate us to an extent, but only the Celts truly accept us. Live with us." She inclines her head toward Maeve.

"I know." Maeve looks more troubled than Sinbad has ever seen her. He wants to soothe her, to erase the anxious crease between her delicate brows, but there's nothing he can say to help this hurt. Senna's right. His time amongst the Fae has been limited, but he's learned this much. They've retreated from the most populated parts of the world, drawing back into wild places like these mountains and Maeve's islands. Too much of their blood has been spilled by humans for this to change easily.

"It will take work on both sides to move forward, not just ours." Rolly's fingers comb gently through his sleeping child's hair. He looks at Senna and smiles. "But it's possible something good can come from disaster. The lowlanders have seen us now. Fought alongside us. I refuse to dismiss that as nothing."

Sinbad agrees fully. They may never know just how many lives were lost under the mountain, but if a step toward reconciliation and healing has been taken, maybe they didn't die in vain.

A sudden commotion at the door steals Sinbad's attention. He can't quite tell what's happening until Rolly, Senna, and Dim-Dim abruptly drop to their knees.

The queen is here.

He and his crew follow Dim-Dim to their knees automatically. Maeve rises swiftly to her feet to greet her monarch. Of course she does, Sinbad thinks as he lowers his head in deference. Does she even know how to kneel?

The Fae queen is as lovely as the rest of her people. He steals a glance at her even as he bows his head. She has rich, warm brown hair and skin as pale as a Celt. She looks almost ageless, though Sinbad suspects she's probably older than Sorcha. She's dressed in pure white, heavy velvet, much like Maeve's, the fur at the sleeves and hemline not brown fox but rich white ermine. A diadem of shining silver rests on her brow, set with little diamonds that sparkle fiercely, a single large yellow gem in the center. He doubts such a monarch would wear topaz; he suspects it's the biggest yellow diamond he's ever seen.

"Riona!" Maeve drops a brief, sketchy bob before tossing her arms around her queen.

The woman laughs, hugging her tightly. "Oh, my girl! I've missed you!"

And there it goes again—the strange feeling Sinbad can't identify, the one that consumed him when he first saw his girl draped in velvet and jewels. His stomach drops. Not just into his boots, but further, down past the heart of the mountain. Maeve said she was useful to her queen. A trusted bodyguard. She didn't say they were close.

Lachlan and Odhran flank the ruler, one on each side. The iceman wears burgundy, the color suspiciously similar to Maeve's velvet gown. Unlike her, it doesn't suit him at all. Sinbad takes heart from Odhran, the big hairy bear of a clan leader, who stands resolutely in his fur-lined leathers. Whether he was surprised by this visit or knew and refused to dress for it, Sinbad neither knows nor cares. He looks uncomfortable standing to the right and just behind his queen, and that makes Sinbad like him.

The iceman eyes Sinbad as he stands to the left and just behind his monarch. No doubt rumors have been flying about Maeve taking up with a foreign human, possibly even whispers that she may consider leaving with him. Everyone in this clan knows she belongs to their queen, knows she's Fae to the bone despite the human blood in her veins. He doubts Lachlan believes she'll choose the human over her queen. In this moment, Sinbad himself isn't even sure. He wants to be. He knows she loves him. But faced with her monarch, her vow, will she change her mind about leaving? What if this queen won't release her?

As if he can sense his discomfort, Dim-Dim touches his shoulder gently. They remain on their knees, waiting for the signal to rise. Sinbad breathes slowly, taking comfort from his mentor, his crew. No matter what happens, he'll always have them. He tries to tell himself that's enough—he doesn't need anything more than his ship, his men, and a star to sail by. The problem is, he's never been good at lying to himself. Maeve hasn't been his for long, but the timeline doesn't matter. He needs her.

Riona releases Maeve but keeps her close, cupping her cheek in one soft white hand. "I've missed that warmth." Dark eyes survey her vassal. "You don't look as bad as I feared."

Maeve smiles. "I had more help than I expected."

"So I have heard." The queen glances at the clustered people and motions for them to rise. "Introduce me."

Odhran steps forward to do so. Maeve resumes her place at Sinbad's side, which calms him somewhat. When he can feel that sweet warmth, all the tension in him eases. He turns his head and brushes his mouth against the soft velvet covering her shoulder. She smells like herself, even over the scent of cedar and cloves. That smell steadies him, gives him faith, just as it did in the caverns below the mountain.

Maeve takes his hand, squeezing gently. He hopes it's meant as reassurance, because that's how he takes it. His eyes cut sideways, glancing at Lachlan, motionless to the side of his queen. Sinbad suspects the color choice was intentional, but it makes the iceman look even whiter than usual, like a blob of melting snow, so white he's washed out and featureless. His face is perfectly schooled, his expression unreadable, but his eyes linger on Maeve's hand clasped in Sinbad's, her body resting lightly against his side.

When Odhran introduces him, Sinbad bows without letting go. The queen sees, he knows she does, but she says nothing. She smiles and strokes Aoife's cheek when introduced to Rolly and Senna, and she looks musingly at Dim-Dim when he bows gallantly, his silver staff clasped in his hand.

"That face...I couldn't forget a face such as that. But I don't quite recall where we've met before." She offers him her hand, which she has not done with the others.

The old sorcerer bends over it, smiling sweetly. "I was at your coronation, majesty. Part of the delegation from Basra, along with my dear friend Cairpra."

"Cairpra!" This is a name she knows; Sinbad sees it instantly as her face lights with pleasure. "I have not seen my old friend in years. Tell her for me, when you see her, that it's been too long. She needs to spend a summer in the north."

"I will certainly," Dim-Dim says, bobbing his head respectfully once again.

The queen's keen dark eyes fix on Sinbad once more. "This is the one I wish to speak to."

Beside him, Maeve frowns.

"Don't give me that look, child. You're too bold."

"You like me this way." Maeve tosses her head, ignoring the rebuke. "What do you want with him?"

"Calm yourself. I'm only going to talk to him. What could I do, when I know my greatest weapon won't raise a hand to him?" She cups Maeve's cheek tenderly and strokes her warm skin with a gentle thumb. "I've heard much while you've been convalescing."

"Monarchs shouldn't listen to rumors."

"Of a certainty they should. Though they should also mark where rumors come from. The trustworthiness of the source." The corner of her mouth twitches with amusement. "You've given the gossips quite a bit of fodder lately."

Maeve doesn't look upset. "I always do."

"True enough." Riona chuckles. "Come, captain. Walk with me. Lachlan, Maeve, you stay here."

Maeve scowls. Lachlan looks like he wants to as well, but he has better training and more respect than his fiery counterpart. He bows, the movement reeking of displeasure, but says nothing.

Sinbad drops to Odhran's spot just behind and to the right of the queen as they leave the dining hall, heading into the open corridors of the mountain palace. He's spent a fair amount of time in the presence of royalty of varying degrees of wealth and power, from the caliph of Baghdad to minor pashas and enterprising warlords. Never has he felt so nervous around one. Riona's status as a powerful ruler doesn't scare him as much as the hold she has over Maeve. He desperately wants something she owns, something he's not sure she's willing to part with.

"Keep up," she says, her head shifting slightly in his direction. "I can't stand talking to someone behind me. All this protocol is bothersome, and meaningless at the end of the day."

He increases his pace, stepping swiftly to her side. He's glad she doesn't insist on formality, but he's still cautious. People with power can be dangerous, he's learned, and in this case doubly so. She holds all the cards. He has to make a good impression.

He considers her as they walk. She's a woman of average height, which means she's at least several inches shorter than Maeve, and slender, lacking her firestarter's strength. The pale skin on the back of her hands is still smooth and supple despite the years he can see in her eyes. Do Fae age differently than humans? He wouldn't be surprised.

"I have heard the story of what my Maeve has done many times over the past two days," she says, walking with a measured, easy tread, neither rushing nor meandering. When other people turn a corner and catch sight of her, they bow low and scamper away quickly. "I want to hear it from your perspective."

"Why?" He quickly regrets the word. It's not his place to question the monarch. "I apologize," he says. "I'm just not sure what more I can add."

Her head turns and she looks at him fully for the first time since leaving the dining hall. Her face is bland, the schooled, expressionless slate he's seen many times on Lachlan. "Has my firestarter told you much about me?"

"No," he admits. "Only that she serves you." He should have asked for more details. He knows he should have. But he honestly never expected to be in this position.

"I was the third and last child born to my parents, behind an elder brother and sister. I was never meant to rule, and my education reflected it." She reaches a tall bank of windows and pauses, staring at the snowy expanse of a winter courtyard. It's lovely, Sinbad has to admit. As long as he doesn't have to be out in it. "I was not neglected—that isn't what I mean to imply. But I wasn't given the same level of preparation my brother received. He sat on our father's council from the age of ten, and his endless lessons revolved around martial tactics, economic policy—the dry business of running a kingdom." She unlatches the window and pushes it open. Frigid air engulfs them. Reaching into a hidden pocket, she extracts a piece of bread, which she crumbles on the snowy sill. From out of nowhere several crows land, fighting for the crumbs.

"I received none of that, and at the time I was glad. I found business insufferably boring. I was meant to marry well, in service to the kingdom, and I was content with my lot. But as I'm sure you know, life doesn't always happen the way we plan." She closes the window again as the crows peck happily at the bread, arguing amicably with their hoarse cries. "My brother died at fifteen. My sister ruled for a while, but died in childbirth. Our healers are better than yours, but far from perfect."

"I'm sorry, majesty." Sinbad isn't sure what else to say.

She doesn't respond. "Her child turned out to be twins. The boy died with her. The girl lived. When I heard, I didn't know what to do. The law was unclear. I could either become queen or my niece's regent. It was my choice to make. Royal councilors advise, but they cannot decree."

"What did you do?"

"I chose to become queen, a title I never wanted and was not trained for." She looks at him, and the expressionless mask cracks just a little. A faint smile touches the corners of her mouth. "It sounds odd, I know. I felt I was doing the right thing for my niece, motherless and vulnerable as she was. She would have to rule one day regardless, and I could not give her a choice in that. But had I made myself her regent, she would have been forced to take up the crown and all that means at eighteen, regardless of whether she wanted to, whether she was ready. Instead, I became queen and named her my heir. I vowed that I would not wed and produce my own children unless she died underage, to save the kingdom from the threat of a war for the throne. And I took up the crown I didn't want."

"But you wanted to be married," he says hesitantly. "Didn't you?" It's a very personal question, and not one a common man ought to ask any monarch, but this isn't a normal situation and he's insanely curious about this woman who holds such power over Maeve's life.

"Yes," she agrees. "That was what I wanted. But we don't always get what we want in life."

Sinbad's heart sinks. He can hear the double meaning clearly in her words, the warning she's giving him, as plainly as if she spoke it outright. She's not going to release Maeve. She's going to tell him to forget her. He knows it.

"That," she says, turning down a new corridor, "was my very long-winded answer to your question. I was not trained to rule. I had to learn on my feet, develop my own way of doing things. One thing I learned over the years is to listen to a story from everyone involved. It's never the same tale. You won't tell me what Lachlan told me, or Odhran, or anyone else I have spoken to. So I want to hear what you have to say."

So Sinbad tells her. He tells her about the desperate plea for help from the human village of Ralgorōd, the promise of badly-needed funds if he and his friend Tetsu the ronin could solve the mystery of the disappearing villagers and return the people, or their bones, safely to their families. He tells her how he heard Maeve singing and first came upon her fighting a pack of werewolves. The queen chuckles at this—she obviously knows her firestarter well.

He holds nothing back. He has everything to lose, but withholding information will not win him favors with this strange northern queen, so he doesn't bother. She appreciates Maeve's boldness, so he hopes she at least tolerates it in him, as well. He tells her honestly that he loved Maeve from the start. Wanted her, yes, but more than that. He's never loved a woman before, but he knows what he feels and he refuses to apologize for it or bend the story into something more socially acceptable. He slept with her that first night, and he refuses to feel shame or apologize. Whether it's normal in Fae society or not he doesn't know, but it isn't for his people. He doesn't care.

He tells the queen about finding the lake and Senna's child. Diving in, unaware of the consequences of such cold water. He would have gone after Senna anyway, had he known. A mother's life was on the line. What else could he possibly do? He speaks of being brought to Odhran's palace, meeting Sorcha and the clan chief. The semi-disastrous attempt to use magic to discover what Senna knew of the creature lurking on the mountain.

"And Odhran sent you out again with my firestarter," Riona says, nodding. "This he did tell me. He did not want to send her alone, and Lachlan did not want to send her at all. But Odhran was willing to send her with you. Why, do you think?"

Sinbad has no idea. "I was a stranger, and human. He didn't have to trust me. But he's a good man, and a good leader. I trusted him. I placed myself at his service."

"So he said. He was worried for my Maeve. She's immensely capable, but he knows he would have felt my wrath if she died on his mountain." The queen's eyes are intelligent. She watches Sinbad closely. "I would have been within my rights to take his head, had she come to harm. Yours, too."

He takes a chance. "Legally, maybe, but not morally. Not when he did nothing wrong. You wouldn't have done it."

The corner of her mouth quirks in amusement. "Are you so sure?"

"No one who protects her niece as you said you did, who cares for Maeve as you seem to, would take a man's life for something that wasn't his fault."

The amused quirk broadens toward a fuller, caustic smile. "And now I have learned something about you, captain."

"What's that?"

"You lack the ability to compartmentalize." She adjusts the heavy silver necklace around her throat and continues to walk. "It's a skill all rulers—the ones who hope to keep their thrones—learn quickly out of necessity. It's a skill I had to hammer into Maeve when she first came to court. You think she's wild now? When she came to me she would hold a grudge until the end of time. Would duel over virtually anything. Good and bad, right and wrong—she felt these were immutable concepts. Perhaps they are, in other circumstances. But not for monarchs. Monarchs have to learn otherwise. What's right in one situation may be wrong in another. The woman who adopted her motherless niece is not the queen who would absolutely take the head of anyone who acted recklessly with the safety of my firestarter."

Sinbad frowns. There's something unsaid here, something telling him to tread carefully. "But Maeve isn't a monarch."

The queen is silent for what feels like a long time. He can't even hear her breaths as they walk, and the heavy white velvet she wears makes no sound. What she's thinking, he has no idea. Her lovely face is perfect and placid as a child's doll.

When she speaks, her voice is level and even. Controlled. "My niece, Niamh, died some years ago. A riding accident. She never married, and produced no children. I was too old by that time to possibly produce an heir of my own. There are distant relatives, aye, but none I would trust my crown to, and the choice is solely mine to make."

Sinbad's jaw clenches. He closes his eyes for a long moment. When they open again he stares at Maeve's queen. "Does Maeve know?" His voice is hoarse. Fuck, this feels awful. He doubts Maeve has any idea what her ruler intends, and he's not okay with having this knowledge when she doesn't.

"That I have long considered her a viable choice for my heir? No, of course not."

Maeve will blow like a volcano when she learns something this monumental has been kept from her. If Riona expects him to keep this secret, she's crazy. He will not make that vow.

"She's human."

The queen inclines her head. "Very. And low-born, at that. But my people know her. They know her power, her loyalty. They trust her. Were she to marry a high-ranking member of my court and produce Fae heirs, they would not oppose my choice."

"A high-ranking member of your court. Like Lachlan."

"Aye. Like him. He is a distant cousin on my father's side. He hasn't the strength to rule, but I would be very content with the pairing if Maeve so chose."

Sinbad can't look at Riona—her inhuman beauty, her intelligent eyes in that expressionless face. He stares at the polished wooden floor, the honey-blond grain paler than Maeve's sweet dark gaze. She's his. Her fire, her light. That sinfully perfect body. Her heart. She gave herself to him, agreed to come south with him. Hell, she carried his child until the battle under the mountain stole that from her. But she gave a vow years ago to another, and Riona isn't going to release her from it.

"She won't want to be queen," he says softly, staring down the silent corridor, the cold winter light sharp like icicles. "She'd hate it."

"I didn't want to be, either, but here I am. I love that girl dearly, captain. More than I loved my niece, however cruel that may sound. But I told you: monarchs must compartmentalize. She is the best choice for the good of my kingdom, especially with a man like Lachlan by her side to cool that temper. I knew she had the strength for it the day we met. Eire is an island set upon by invaders, cannibalized from within by feuding human clans. The very rivers run with blood. Do you have any idea what the pope's men would have done with her, had she fallen into their hands? They would have tried to burn her as a witch, and I don't want to think about what would have happened once they learned she cannot burn." Riona's eyes bore into him. "I saved her from that fate. No one can train that wild magic—my mages tried, but her fire doesn't work like their powers do. But I molded that spirit. It took time. Like a high-spirited horse, she had to be handled carefully. I never wanted to break her. Just teach. I taught her everything I wished someone had taught me, prepared her to take over for me when I am gone."

"Except you didn't tell her the most important thing—what you were planning."

"No. I wanted to spare her that. I still do."

Sinbad is skeptical. Does this queen truly want to spare Maeve the heavy yoke of that responsibility for as long as possible, or merely spare herself the task of finding a new heir should Maeve refuse? He feels the queen's eyes on him. They burn, but it's nothing like Maeve's sweet warmth.

"You are a sea captain. You have a responsibility to your men, but it's nothing like the weight of ruling a kingdom." Her voice remains level as she speaks, calm and evenly-paced, betraying no emotion. He thought the iceman was good at schooling his outward tells, but Riona is the master. "You have no idea the burden of running such a disjointed kingdom. Most rulers have a set territory to control, a small chunk of contiguous land with clear borders they can patrol. I do not. My people live in isolated clans across the world—further than even a sailor could imagine. Across seas more vast than you can comprehend. They are pockmarked here and there in your populated world, spread more thickly in places such as this, where you humans fear to tread. Keeping such far-flung people safe from harm in a world bent on their destruction is nearly impossible, and it takes more than average strength and intelligence to do it. My firestarter is a legend, a thing of near-mythical status. Why shouldn't I want her as my heir?"

And that's the thing, the terrible, awful thing: she should. Riona absolutely should want Maeve as her heir, assuming her people will accept a low-born human as their queen. She's the strongest woman he's ever met, full of near-inexhaustible stamina and resilience. She doesn't back down from challenges and she fears very little. She's keenly intelligent, and even in the short time he's known her she's demonstrated skillful tactical knowledge and devious cunning. Were he in Riona's place, he'd choose her, too.

Except there's one very, very big problem with the Fae queen's plan.

Maeve doesn't want that life.

He knows it with everything he is. Yes, seeing her dressed as a courtier shook him earlier, but he knows her. She needs more freedom than a queen could ever have, needs a world far bigger than a throne room. His appearance in her life did not change her, did not cause this fierce desire to be free. It's part of her, an undeniable piece of who she is. She can stifle her urge to fly free for a while, when necessary. She can don velvets and jewels and stand at her queen's side for a while. But she can't do it forever, which is what Riona is asking of her.

And she loves him. This truth can't be denied any more than her spirit can. This _is_ his fault, and he takes full responsibility. Had she known at the time that she was meant to be the heir, she probably would have resisted this pull. They both would have tried, he thinks. He doesn't know that either of them would have been successful. Some things are just meant to be. Kismet, as she said when they met. This bond is too deep now to sever without debilitating scars on both sides.

"She will serve you loyally to the end of her days if you make her," he says quietly. He already knows this. If Riona demands that Maeve keep her vow, she will. She loves him, but she takes her oath far too seriously to ever flout it. "But you'll break her if you do."

Sinbad can feel Riona's eyes on him. Gathering his will, he turns and meets her steady gaze. Moments stretch past, agonizingly slow.

"I know," she says finally. Her mouth thins, the faintest hint of her displeasure as she looks at him. "And so we have a problem, you and I."

Do they? He rather thinks she and Maeve have a problem, and it's one that has only tangentially to do with him. Riona should have been honest with her vassal from the start. Whatever her reasons, they don't justify hiding something this vitally important.

"I won't stop fighting for her," he says softly. "Maybe I should, but I won't. I can't." He swallows hard. "It would be different if I didn't know how she feels. But I do."

Riona's body shifts, the first hint of impatience he's seen from her. "She was with child. Yes, I know. My healer told me. Maybe in your world an illegitimate child is romantic, but not among my courtiers. That's not evidence of love, captain, just irresponsibility. She terminated it herself."

Sudden anger flares in his gut. "She didn't. She thought about it, yes, and admitted as much to me. But she didn't."

"If that's what she said, she told you what you wanted to hear. As I said, she can compartmentalize. I taught her myself."

"That's not what I mean." He struggles to keep his voice even. He's not a member of the Fae court and cannot control himself as they do, and right now he's furious. He doesn't blame Riona for wanting Maeve as her heir. That makes sense. But he seethes at her for saying his child was a mistake, merely the product of irresponsible behavior, and insisting that Maeve terminated her pregnancy by choice. She didn't. She had conflicting feelings about it, which was fully her right, but she chose not to act on them. "When she entered the mountain to rescue us, she and I, we...merged. I can't explain it. Maybe Dim-Dim could. But she was inside me. My head—my soul. She felt what I felt. I knew what she knew. Lying was impossible. I can't explain, but I know. She loves me, and she didn't miscarry by choice." He breathes deeply, hanging firmly onto his temper. He doesn't think Riona is purposefully taunting him, baiting him to anger, but he honestly isn't sure. She's difficult to fathom. But she was young once. Wanted to be married, presumably to love and be loved. Can't she understand? "When you were young you wanted to marry. Was there someone you loved?"

It's an audacious question for a commoner to ask a monarch—for anyone to ask a monarch. He knows this. She'd be within her rights to lock him up for it, but she doesn't. A curious gleam enters her eyes. "No. I wanted to. I wanted someone to see me for who I was, not _what_. A girl, not a princess. But rulers don't get that luxury."

"Maeve wasn't born to rule. Why would you intentionally impose that sort of life on someone you say you love?" He stares at the queen. He can't even begin to guess her years. At least two generations separate them if she's near Cairpra's age, which he can't guarantee she is. But she still must remember that loneliness, mustn't she?

"Because I can compartmentalize, captain. Must I say it over and over? This conversation is getting tedious. A monarch must prioritize. The good of the many, not the few. The kingdom above all. Even above love. If it's true that Maeve did not purposefully terminate her pregnancy, she still must have known what using so much power, turning from a human woman to pure flame, would do to it. That proves my point, and redoubles my insistence that she is the best choice for my people. If she can sacrifice her own child to save countless other lives, she is exactly the person I need to follow me onto the throne."

He struggles to breathe evenly, steadily, though he feels as if he's being strangled. Every argument he tries to make turns back in his face—all but one. Maeve does not want this. He knows it with everything he is. Even if she never comes south with him, she does not want to be queen and would never willingly choose it. If she follows Riona onto the throne it will be because of her oath of service, nothing more. And it will break her.

"I'm just a sailor," he says. His own voice sounds strange in his ears, hollow and tight. He can't lose her—he can't. But he's going to anyway. She loves him. She chose him. He's still going to lose her. "I have no business loving a lady of your court, and I know that. But that's not who she was when we met, and it's not who she is now. You can teach her all you like. Drape her in silk and diamonds. You can't change who she is. I don't think you see the same person I do when you look at her." Dim-Dim said souls were immutable. Unchangeable. That's what he sees when he looks at Maeve. "She's a wild thing—a fighter. She's not a tame little songbird. She's a wild hawk. I know why you want to keep her. I do. But understand that I'll fight just as hard as you do. The cage you want to lock her up in is a beautiful one, I'm sure, but it's still a cage. She doesn't want it."

Riona frowns at him, the clearest sign of her displeasure she's yet shown. "How long have you known her?" she demands. "A couple of weeks at most. Less, if you don't count the time you spent a slave under this mountain." She's a small woman but she seems to grow with her indignation, though her body remains impassive. "She has been mine since before she came of age. I molded her. Shaped her. It took time and patience, and I'm the first to admit she's far from perfect. But I did it, and all with the intention of giving her my kingdom."

"A kingdom she doesn't want."

"You don't know that. You think you know her? I can't speak to her magic, which does as it will. But if you think her willingness to lay with you means something, be advised. We Fae don't hold the same morals you stuffy southerners do. We are very capable of physical pleasure without romantic entanglement."

He's figured that much out already. Maeve wouldn't have been so willing to fuck him so quickly if she had the usual hangups his people do. She delights in her body without shame, which is one of the many things he loves about her. But while this relationship may have started with a mutual wish for physical pleasure, it turned very swiftly into something far more.

"Ask her." It's the biggest gamble Sinbad has ever made in his life, and he tends to be a gambling man. He makes this one with no reservations. As he told the queen, he's been inside her. She's been inside him. He knows how she feels, what she wants. "Tell her the truth about your intentions. Free her from her vow and see what she chooses." She'll honor her vow for life if forced, but if freed he's confident she'll choose him. She loves him. Wants to stay with him. And being crowned would kill the beautiful, wild spirit within her.

Riona watches him. She's impossible to read, but he knows she doesn't like him. How could she? He's in her way, an obstacle in her neatly-laid plan. He wants to be sorry for that; he doesn't mean to cause anyone strife, and she seems to be a good ruler, one who cares about her people above all else. But he can't give Maeve up now. He loves her too much, and he despairs for the life he sees stretched before her if Riona doesn't free her. "You say you'll fight for her," the queen says, her dark eyes steady. "But what else would you do?"

"What do you mean?" Does she want him to list the various things he's willing to endure for Maeve? He's not a poet. He's a sailor.

"Would you come north? Give up your ship and reside in my capital?" Her face is impassive once more, the momentary disturbance of her displeasure nowhere to be found.

He frowns. "Your people would never accept a human queen with a human husband." Nor does he want any part in ruling a kingdom. That's not who he is.

"No. You could never marry her. That I would not allow. But you could be near her. As long as you were circumspect, and she never bore a human child."

Could he do it? The prospect is not a happy one. Could he be the hidden consort of a queen? Watch her bear another man's children, quite possibly Lachlan's?

Give up the sea? Could he?

"You hesitate." Riona smiles thinly. "It's amusing, captain, to see a man struggle to swallow what women are expected to endure without protest."

Yes, he knows. It isn't fair. And honestly, he's not sure he could stand to share his Maeve, even if she asked it of him. But she's not asking. Riona is. And he's not accountable to the Fae queen. She's not his monarch. "I'd give up everything I have in the world if she honestly asked me to. But she hasn't, and I don't believe she ever would." He turns to fully face the queen and bows low. She hasn't given him permission to leave, but he's done with this conversation. He won't negotiate with Riona, only with Maeve, and Riona needs to be having this conversation with her vassal, not with him. Maeve is going to hit the roof when she hears that they were discussing her future without her input anyway, and he's determined not to make that argument any worse for himself than it already will be. "Tell her the truth, majesty," he says. "Give her free will. Let her choose. I can give you nothing until then." He turns and walks away.

* * *

_Yes, Riona's history is loosely based on that of the Tudors, but with obvious changes, mostly to account for a more female-friendly society and one less concerned with a royal bloodline than the competency of the monarch._


	18. Chapter 18

_A/N: I hate doing this, but I need to give a very short PSA about the mention of abortion throughout this story. It is by no means meant to be a moral judgment on the issue either way, so please don't take it as such. This is a fantasy story set in a psuedo-historic world and not a reflection in any way on the modern issue. Moreover, abortion in the ancient world was widely practiced and not seen as a particularly moral or religious issue, which I know surprises a lot of people. So long as it happened early enough in a pregnancy (usually before the woman could feel a fetus moving, traditionally called "quickening") it was generally not a legal issue, either. When it was prosecuted, it was generally as a property crime against the father, and prosecutions were usually not against women choosing it for themselves, but against men who caused it to happen through violence. I realize this is a very different mindset for a lot of people, but it's the one I'm trying to work with. When you consider that most people were subsistence farmers or laborers and the addition of another mouth to feed during a poor harvest could mean the difference between life and death for a whole family, it starts to make a little more sense. Now that we're clear, on to the fun!_

**The Mountain**

Pairing: Maeve/Sinbad  
Rating: M (language, sex, violence)  
Setting: Alternate  
All standard disclaimers apply

* * *

Three heartbeats after Riona and Sinbad leave the dining hall, Maeve moves to follow.

Lachlan catches her arm. "She said to stay, _l__eannán_."

He touches her lightly, politely, and the discordance between the mild pressure of his fingers and the way Sinbad touches her, firm and steady, a grip meant for flesh and not glass, fires her anger beyond what's really called for. She jerks her arm free and wheels on him, lightning-quick, as if she were a stray cat and he just pulled her tail. Her words are a warning hiss. "You call me that one more time and Riona will have to find a new captain of the guard."

He backs down immediately, as he always does, lowering his hand and watching her with a calm and cultivated expression, his ice-blue gaze both colder and softer than Sinbad's sea-bright stare. He's known her for years—watched her for years. Her hair isn't visibly sparking, and while he can feel her fire flicker with irritation she's not yet blazing. He releases her without protest but doesn't step back, choosing to physically stand his ground.

Maeve's teeth clench with pique. She hates how everyone around her can feel the tides of emotion that fuel her fire—her fury, her passion. She can't control it and she's learned to accept and live with it, but she hates how Lachlan so blatantly measures her anger, judging how close to stay, how softly to deal with her. He's always done so but it didn't rile her quite so badly until she had Sinbad to compare him to. Sinbad isn't afraid of her. He's never been afraid of her. He doesn't modulate himself in response to her fire but takes her on face-to-face, anger or desire, however she comes. It's one of the many things she loves about him, and one of the things she's most unwilling to give up now that she has it.

"Did he just insult you?" Doubar shoves his way forward, Rongar barely a half-step behind.

Sweet men. Maeve's fire calms and settles at their instant defense of her. She's never had brothers before. Usually she finds any male attempts at protectiveness stifling, but Sinbad's crew are so sweet and well-meaning that she just can't take offense.

"No," she answers, forcing her body to relax, though she's still irritated at Lachlan. "It wasn't an insult. Not directly, anyway." She doesn't elaborate, dark eyes watching the captain of the guard carefully, speaking clearly her unvoiced warning. She never gave him permission to use that term, and with Sinbad in the picture his continued insistence on doing so is indeed an insult to both her and her sailor. But these are nuances of language her new southern family won't understand, and she isn't interested in giving a lesson in semantics right now.

Lachlan breathes steadily, his emotionless mask firmly in place. "Her majesty said to stay," he repeats, his voice flat and toneless.

"So stay. No one's forcing you to do any differently." Maeve clamps down on her fire. She outranks the guardsman and she doesn't appreciate him objecting to her behavior as if she were a child. He can't order her to do a damn thing, though that's never stopped him from trying. "I'm not going to spy on them. But I'm not going to just sit around and wait, either. I have things to do." Sinbad wants her to see Sorcha, and though she doesn't believe there's any cause for his caution, she doesn't want to argue with him about it anymore, either. She wants his body tangled with hers, hard and sweaty and wanting, and if a visit to Sorcha is what it takes to get what she wants, she'll do it.

"Her majesty won't like you leaving. She'll want this tale from your perspective next. She wanted to wake you yesterday to hear it, but Sorcha stopped her."

Maeve is almost sorry she slept through that dispute. Sorcha never backs down in defense of a patient, even from her queen. Like Maeve, her unique skills keep her safe from her monarch's wrath.

"If you're so worried about displeasing Riona, you shouldn't be wearing a color above your station." The corners of Maeve's mouth curl upward in a slight mocking smirk. She knows perfectly well that he's wearing the ruddy wine color not as a sign of rank he's not entitled to, but to fuck with Sinbad. It probably worked, too. Her sailor is fairly affable most of the time, but he doesn't like Lachlan any more than the captain of the guard likes him. Jealousy is something she usually does not tolerate from men, but part of her secretly likes it when she sees that possessive glint in Sinbad's eye. And she will never, ever tell him so.

"It's not above my station." He taps a scrap of scarlet silk ribbon pinned over his heart. "Her majesty promoted me yesterday."

Lovely for him. Maeve feels another flicker of irritation. He faced none of the challenges or dangers she and Sinbad did, but he was rewarded anyway. Her pretty mouth thins with displeasure, but she orders herself sternly not to care. So he now has the right to wear the next color down from royal crimson. It means nothing. She's leaving with her sailor, which is a far better prize: freedom, and love. The chance to abandon all this petty, courtly nonsense means more to her than any scrap of ribbon ever could.

"Congratulations. I'll leave you my wardrobe when I go." She turns for the door.

"You can't be serious about leaving." A hint of emotion bleeds into his voice, a feather of disbelief.

"Of course I am. I have no idea what outrageous things the local rumor mill has dreamed up, let alone what they're saying in Aven, but I'm going south as soon as Riona gives me leave."

Lachlan's pale blue eyes blink at her as if he's having trouble digesting her words. "Her majesty will never allow it. She'll take that sailor's head before she lets you go."

Maeve scowls. She doesn't want to stand here and argue with Lachlan, she wants to get this visit with Sorcha over with so she can have Sinbad all to herself once Riona's done with him. "He and I just saved whole clans' worth of her people. She owes me, and even if she didn't, she'd know better than to hurt him. You heard her." Her eyes narrow as she stares at the captain of the guard. "She knows that would be a very dangerous thing to do."

Lachlan stares back at her, face impassive. He's related to the queen, but only distantly, and they are not close. He's captain of the guard not through nepotism but due to his competency in battle and his exceptional organizational skills. He has extensive tactical knowledge and the ability to put theory into practice, though he lacks the power and charisma a fighting general needs. Men do not follow him because they love him; they follow him because they trust his brain. Riona trusts the same. Whatever he says now comes from careful observation of his queen, not her assertions. He is not her confidante and never will be.

"Maeve," Doubar says, tense at her back, "please tell me my brother's not in danger right now."

"He's not in danger," she snaps. "She won't be happy that I'm leaving, but she's not stupid. She had to know I wouldn't stay forever and she has no reason to take it out on him."

"She had every reason to think you would stay." Lachlan's pale eyes lighten when he gets agitated; right now his irises are nearly white. "You swore an oath."

"I was sixteen. A child. And the monarch can and does release people from their vows."

"Other people. Not you. You're too dear to her."

"Useful," Maeve objects, as she always objects when someone suggests Riona has any feeling for her. Maeve knows better. "I'm a commodity. I'm not indispensable. If I were, Riona never would send me on quests like this one." The odds of her not returning from this mountain were high, but Riona took that risk anyway. Maeve is grateful to her queen for it. That risk brought her Sinbad and the prospect of a freer life than she can remember.

Lachlan stares at her. He wants to speak, Maeve can see it in his eyes, but he doesn't quite dare. This irks her further. Sinbad has never been afraid to tell her what he thinks, even when he knows she won't like it. Maybe that's why sex with him is so much more satisfying. He's not afraid of her. He's no brute, but he's not exactly a gentleman, either. Her fire tries to flare in response to her thoughts and she clamps down hard on it. His sweet-rough nature and hard hands are exactly what she wants.

"Her majesty will not let you go," the captain of the guard says finally. His voice is flat; emotionless.

"I'd bet against you, but you have nothing at all that I want." Maeve glances at the scrap of scarlet ribbon pinned to his chest. "We'll see who's right at the end of the day. I have to say goodbye to Sorcha." She genuinely hopes he's happy with his promotion. Once more she heads for the door. This time he knows better than to stop her.

"What did you call her?" Doubar demands when the last swirl of her long skirt disappears through the doorway. He folds his arms over his big barrel chest, frowning at the ice-white man. "She didn't like it, which means I don't like it, either." Next to him, Rongar takes up the same position. His crossed arms bring his hands in close proximity to his dirks.

Lachlan doesn't answer. He inclines his head toward Rolly and Senna, deliberately excluding the humans in the room from the courtesy, and leaves with swift, irritated steps.

Doubar swears. "I thought I was done not understanding people when we left those hairy, growly fellows out on the mountain."

"I don't think he actually insulted her," Firouz says slowly. "Sinbad said it, too, and she didn't complain."

"I'm not well-versed in the language," Dim-Dim says, sinking onto a bench. "Rolly, can you enlighten us?"

The Fae man exchanges a glance with his wife. "It's a term of endearment," he says. "One he is not entitled to use, and may never have been."

"You mean she got mad at him for calling her 'sweetheart'?" Doubar settles next to Dim-Dim. "I know she lights quickly, but that seems excessive even for her."

"Not exactly." Senna fails badly at hiding her amused smile. "There's a sexual connotation."

"He's claiming the right to openly call her his lover, which she obviously rejects." Rolly frowns. "It's something a Fae man ought to know better than to push."

Senna steps close, kissing the baby in her husband's arms. "Palace rumor says there was a previous relationship. I'm skeptical. She's been snapping at him to knock it off ever since they arrived, well before Sinbad entered the picture."

Doubar looks disgusted. "I'd be happy to give him a little...friendly reminder to back off. That girl saved our lives. My brother's life. She's the hero here, not Mister Icicle, no matter how many ribbons he wears. She shouldn't have to deal with his pettiness."

Rongar grasps his shoulder, then points firmly to the south, where their ship sits waiting at the village of Ralgorōd for their return. He mimics heaving on a line to raise the sail.

"Rongar's right," Firouz says. "She's leaving with us. There's no need to make a scene. We'll be gone soon and likely never see him again."

"I still don't like it," Doubar grumbles. "I'll behave. I won't start an international incident. But I wouldn't be sorry if she decked him. And what's this about her queen not letting her go? I thought that was settled."

Dim-Dim opens his palms to the fire, warming his hands. "If she's given an oath of fealty it's a bit more complicated. I wouldn't worry, however. Sinbad is exceptionally good at getting what he wants."

"That he is," Doubar agrees, picking up his mug. "And something tells me she is, too."

"So relax," Rolly says as the child in his arms shifts, slowly waking. "Enjoy some wine and the fire. Let them figure it out."

"That's advice I'd be happy to take," Doubar says, "if I didn't know how good Sinbad is at getting into trouble. Especially with women. I think we'd best make sure we're packed and ready to leave, in case we have to make a hasty exit."

"It's not a bad idea, considering." Firouz puts his mug down. "Sinbad does have a way of finding trouble."

"Maeve has it, too," Doubar grumbles. "In spades. Gods help us if their children are the same." He heads for the door, the others close at his heels.

* * *

Despite telling Lachlan she has no plan to eavesdrop, Maeve wishes her magic would let her do just that. She's never been able to scry like a mage and it's one of the skills she most wishes she possessed. Her monarch relies on mages who can spy on rulers of unfriendly kingdoms and their power has kept her on her throne through at least two coup attempts. Maeve's own motives right now are entirely selfish and she feels zero shame about it. Riona and Sinbad are talking about her, she knows they are, and she hates it. She doesn't want anyone discussing her if she's not there to defend herself.

She's also forced to admit, as much as she hates it, that Lachlan's words have stirred some unease in her belly. She has Riona's favor and never particularly worried that her queen would refuse her this boon after all she's done for her. Now she's forced to wonder. What happens if Riona won't release her?

She could leave anyway, she supposes. Sail south with Sinbad, into parts of the world where the Fae queen holds little power. She's as human as any other Celt, and while she'll be seen as a foreigner by Sinbad's people, she won't be hunted down as a true member of the Fae would be. But she's never been an oathbreaker, never before even considered it, and she desperately doesn't want to be forced into such a position. That's not who she is. She doesn't duck and run from conflict, or from duty.

But Sinbad.

Her jaw tightens and she turns resolutely for the infirmary. Worrying is pointless, and she refuses to do it. She's going to proceed as if nothing is wrong. She needs to see Sorcha so Sinbad will stop concerning himself with her health, and at some point she needs to use a key to return to Aven, to collect the few things she wants to bring with her and dispense with the rest. Someone else will take up her rooms in the palace—hell, maybe even Lachlan, since he got his promotion. Everyone knows he wants to be named as Riona's heir, but Maeve doubts it will happen. If Riona favored him everyone would know it by now. He's a competent captain of the guard and good at playing the petty games of the court, but he's not part of Riona's innermost circle, nor is he her nearest blood-kin, though royal bloodlines have never been as important to the Fae as they are to human monarchs. The Fae want a capable ruler on the throne, someone they can trust. They care very little for the human obsessions with male primogeniture and royal blood.

She turns a corner and climbs a staircase, walking swiftly even as she muses. She'll be glad to leave palace life behind. She'll miss a few close friends, but she's happy to dispense with the rest of the pressures of the court. She stays with Riona because her talents are valued and appreciated, not because she enjoys politics or palace intrigue. The best parts of her job are traveling with the queen and tasks such as this one, when the queen sends her as a trusted weapon to quell a danger to her people. With Sinbad, that life can be hers permanently. She can protect him, his men and his ship, and see the world firsthand, close-up, as she could never do as Riona's lady. It's exactly what she wants, and even if it wasn't, she doesn't know that she could give Sinbad up now. She loves him too much.

She finds Sorcha in her private room off the infirmary.

The older woman is packing to return home, but she smiles and her busy hands pause when she sees Maeve. "I suspected you'd be by today."

"I'm fine," Maeve says quickly. She's still somewhat irritated with Sinbad for insisting on this, but she's done fighting about it. Now she just wants to get it over with. She wants his hard hands, his body hot against hers, and she's willing to do whatever she has to to get it. "But Sinbad doesn't believe me when I say it. Men are such babies."

"They are," Sorcha agrees, moving out into the larger ward, "but in this case his caution isn't entirely baseless. You did nearly die."

"Two days ago!"

"And you looked awful the other night when I checked on you." Sorcha presses lightly on her shoulders, urging her to sit on the end of an infirmary cot.

"I'd been out on the mountain for gods know how long. I'm not really clear on the timeline, to be honest." Maeve sits. "I was brawling with werewolves, fighting those demon-things, rescuing stray humans. I even went back in that fucking lake." Never again. She will never again get in that gods-be-damned lake. She absolutely refuses.

"Dear gods, why?" Sorcha takes her hands and examines the red scabs over her split knuckles. "Some of these probably should have been sewn shut. Your hands won't ever again look like a lady's hands should."

"I've been fighting since I could walk. My hands never looked like a lady's anyway, and I don't care."

"I have no doubt of that. I'm just saying." Sorcha releases her gently. "Your children are eventually going to want to know why their mama looks so banged up."

"They will not. Sinbad and his crew lead a rough life. My kids will know I earn my scars honestly."

Sorcha rolls her eyes. "I had some hope you'd eventually find a man who could keep you out of trouble. I suspect you've found the opposite."

Maeve smiles broadly. "The exact opposite," she agrees. Trouble seems to find Sinbad as easily as it finds her, and she loves it.

"And you were in the lake again because…?" Sorcha retrieves a small glass jar from a shelf. Removing the cork reveals smooth golden honey. She covers Maeve's knuckles and tops the sticky goo with bits of clean linen.

"The creatures we were hunting are afraid of water. My point is there was a reason I didn't exactly look ready for a royal reception when you saw me."

Sorcha wipes her hands on her apron and chucks the younger woman gently under the chin. "You really are a terrible lady-in-waiting, aren't you? All the danger you just listed and you loved every second of it."

"I did not!" Maeve protests. "I hate water! And I'm not so fond of snow anymore, either."

"Snow is water."

"I know," Maeve says bitterly. "I spent the last week in wet, chafing leather."

"Smart people put a layer in between. Where is the worst? Let me see."

Maeve obediently turns and lifts her long gown, exposing the tender backs of her knees, rubbed raw by wet leather.

"Ouch." Sorcha winces in sympathy.

"It's not so bad. Sinbad looks worse."

"He does, and the salve I sent up will work just as well on this as on his wounds. Provided you actually use it." Sorcha drops her skirt and Maeve sits back down. "Rumors are flying, you know. About a lot of things, but mostly about you. And him."

"I'm always the target of rumors." This has never bothered Maeve. People talk; she can't control it.

"I know you're leaving with him." A touch of sadness enters the older woman's smile. "I will miss you, firestarter. You do make Riona's court interesting. But I can't say I'm surprised."

"Why not?" Maeve frowns, shifting on the thin medical cot. "I didn't know I was leaving with him until after I rescued everyone. I was going to let him go."

"No, you weren't. You only thought you were." Sorcha watches her evenly. "It's amusing. You were always so sure you could control everything. Not Riona, of course, though not for lack of trying. But everything else. Then that sailor came along and knocked you spinning."

Maeve scowls. It's no more than the truth, but she resents it nonetheless. "I didn't mean for it to happen."

"I know it. You didn't even see it coming. That's what's so funny." Her smile shifts, gentling. "I didn't expect you to actually take the herbs I gave you, though. Were I a betting woman, I would have lost that one."

Maeve's arms fold uncomfortably over her torso. She doesn't want to talk about that. "I didn't."

"Didn't you?" Sorcha sits beside her on the cot. "You're bleeding, child."

"I know." She drops her eyes, staring at the floor. She wants to lash out at anyone who prods this ache, but it's Sorcha's job so she restrains herself. "About a million people have felt it was their duty to tell me what I already knew. But I didn't do it on purpose." Her arms tighten a little. She still can't decide how she feels about this, and she's uncomfortable with indecision. Ought she grieve? Feel relief? Guilt? She feels all of it at the same time, and it makes no sense.

"In that case, I'm sorry. It happens often. All the time. But that's little solace, and I know it."

Maeve's shoulders hitch, a halfhearted shrug. "Why'd you give me the cure, if you knew I wasn't going to take it?"

"You weren't ready to accept your life changing so drastically. You were angry and scared, which is very normal. Giving you the option gave you the perception of control over the situation. It let you come to terms with the idea of becoming a mother, quite possibly raising a child on your own. You didn't need to take the potion. You just wanted the option."

Maeve frowns. "How come you know me better than I do?" she demands.

Sorcha laughs. "I'm older than you. And in this case, you're no different than many, many young women I've tended to." She rises. "I can hurry along the discharge, if you like. It won't fix anything, but you'll physically feel better after."

Maeve nods slowly.

"Come, then. Does he know?"

"Everything." It's somewhere between a word and a sigh. She hadn't planned for him to ever know. She was going to go back home, back to the west, and raise her child on her own. No Fae would shame her for it. Even now she has no idea what she'd say if she had to tell him. Luckily she didn't have to. The magic spoke for her. This bond they share is soul-deep, and when she merged with him in the caverns he learned everything. She's glad she didn't have to say the words, because she doesn't know what words to say.

"It's for the best that he knows," Sorcha says, leading the way into the infirmary's bathing room. "It wasn't my place to tell him and I never would, but hiding things from each other is no way to start a life together."

"I know that." Maeve unlaces the front of her gown as Sorcha lifts the heavy skirt gently over her head. "But I wasn't planning to start a life with him. I was planning to leave him."

"Life doesn't always go as we plan, for better or for worse." Sorcha guides her deftly into a beaten copper tub much like the one in her own bathing room. She lifts her thin linen chemise over her head. "Here. I know you don't care about staining your clothes, but consider the laundresses."

"What are you going to do?" Maeve asks uneasily.

"Calm yourself. It will be as if the bleeding happened in ten minutes instead of over several days. It's not pleasant, but you'll feel better after."

Maeve desists, letting the healer do as she will. Sorcha touches her bare abdomen lightly, just for a moment. Her hand lights with her violet magic and Maeve forces herself not to flinch.

"You'll be happier out of here, child," Sorcha says, her hand falling away.

"With a man? I never particularly wanted one. Not to keep, anyway."

"That's not what I mean. I mean that you'll be happier free of Aven. And Riona." She guides her to sit in the bathing tub.

"Ow! That hurts." Maeve scowls, drawing her knees to her chest.

"Try childbirth sometime." Sorcha's hands hover over the valve. "Do you want water?"

"No. I'm sick of being wet."

"And yet you're leaving with a sailor." The healer desists. She stands at the side of the copper tub, looking down at the woman curled in it. "You were never meant to be a monarch's watchdog." She strokes her hair gently, tucking back the flyaway strands fallen loose from her red braid. "Don't misunderstand—you've done well. Not as a fine lady, perhaps, but as a protector. And Riona adores you. She won't be happy that you want to leave. But you weren't born to this life, and it doesn't suit you."

Maeve drops her head to the side, letting it rest against the older woman's knee. "I know."

"Maeve, I want to tell you something." She hesitates.

"What? I'm kind of a captive audience right now." This isn't comfortable at all. She'd tell Sorcha she changed her mind and wants to end the spell, but the healer did say only ten minutes. She can deal with it for ten minutes.

"I knew your parents."

"I know that." Maeve frowns up at the healer. They grew up in the same village, half Celt, half Fae, separated by their ages but not geography. This is not news, and she has no idea why Sorcha has decided to bring it up now.

"Hush. You talk too much, has anyone ever told you that? Try listening now and then. Riona thinks it's cute, but I don't know what the humans down south will say."

Maeve smiles. "Sinbad loves me the way I am. Everyone else can get fucked for all I care."

"That boy may very well be even cockier than you; I'm not surprised at all that he likes it. Be quiet. As I said, I knew your parents. They knew you were something special from the start. They were flaxen-haired, both of them, nary a redhead in either family tree. And they adored you. They'd been married for ten years and your mother had never quickened before. She thought she was likely barren. Then you came along."

"Why are you telling me this?"

Sorcha's hand moves gently on her head. "Because I might not get another chance to. Nothing is sure in this world, firestarter, and you are going very far away."

Yes, Maeve knows. Leaving Sorcha and a few other friends will wrench, but leaving Sinbad would be far worse. She's honestly not sure she could anymore.

"When you started crawling, you aimed straight for the hearth. Every time your mother turned her back for a moment, you were there. She did her best to shield you—they both did—but she couldn't watch you every second of every day. Eventually the inevitable happened. You pulled yourself to your feet for the first time, took two steps, and fell face-first into the fire." Sorcha snorts. "That was the first set of clothing you burnt. Not the last."

No, not by a longshot. She's still losing clothes to the fire. Maeve lifts her head and watches the healer as she speaks.

"No one could explain your fire. No one had a name for what you were. You were nowhere in our lore, Celt or Fae. Your parents worked to hide it as best they could, afraid of what the pope's men would do if they heard of it. In their religion flames symbolize evil. But everyone who met you knew you were anything but. Stubborn, yes, even as an infant. Headstrong and tempestuous, but not evil. Never that. Though fire couldn't hurt you, you learned quickly that it did hurt others. Even when you were tiny you knew better than to unleash it on people."

Sorcha shifts and draws a slow breath. "I left for a time to be trained in Aven. It was an honor to be chosen to train with the queen's staff. I wasn't home when the Vikings came."

"I don't want to talk about that." Maeve's memories of the raid that killed her parents are chaotic, hazy with youth and the passing years. She remembers flames everywhere, and smoke, and big men with swords who looked like her own people but shouted in an unknown tongue and turned her world into a river of blood.

"You don't have to talk about it. I understand." Sorcha's pale eyes are kind. "I didn't see that raid, but I've seen my share." Her hand resumes its slow, steady caress of her hair. "Riona sent all of the healers in Aven, even students like myself, to do what we could. One of them found you hiding in the wreckage of a house with a handful of other small children. We helped where we could: bandaging the wounded, burning the dead. You kissed your mother's face and lit her pyre yourself."

"I know. I remember." She was five or six years old, too old not to remember when a man lifted her to kiss her unresponsive mother for the last time, her father's body beside her but too damaged for her young self to recognize. At the urging of the adults around her, she had put her hands on the pyre and lit it herself, saying farewell to the human parents who bore her and turning instead for a future among the Fae.

"What you may not remember is that I took you to Aven that day." The skin around Sorcha's pale green eyes tightens. She's troubled. "To the queen. I was only a student myself, and I had no real grounds to do it. But she took audience with me anyway, the gods alone know why. I showed you to her. Did my best to explain the power you control. I requested a boon of her—that she place you with a family to look after you. With your parents dead and our village gone, I was afraid of what might happen to you. Your father feared you falling into the hands of the pope's men, and I believe he was right to worry."

Maeve frowns, searching back through her earliest memories, seeking proof of the healer's words. She trusts her fully, but she has no memory of meeting Riona so young, no memory of walking through a Fae door from the destruction of her muddy little village to the opulence of Aven.

"I wasn't sure Riona would have mercy on a human child, even a Celt. Even one with such a powerful gift. But she did. She bade her then-captain of the guard to find a suitable family for you either among the survivors of our village or somewhere nearby, and to extend to them a royal stipend—nothing by her standards but plenty by theirs—for their trouble. And she bade me return you to her when you were fourteen, to see what had become of you."

This second trip Maeve remembers. The splendor of the capital city, built of shining pale stone, not mud and wattle. The queen, resplendent in snowy white silk and bright scarlet, the blood-red color only the monarch and her nearest family may wear. Riona bade her sit on the royal dais, at her feet. Maeve's foster parents had forced her to scrub thoroughly from head to toe and dressed her in wrinkled but clean undyed linen, flaxen-cream with flecks of darker brown. Riona had petted her as if she were a much younger child; Maeve grit her teeth and said nothing, though she hated it. The queen took her by the hand and they walked into a stone courtyard. She asked to see what Maeve could do. After the demonstration Riona took a ring with a red stone from her own royal hand. She placed it, warm with her body heat, on Maeve's right thumb: the only place on her child-sized hand where it fit. The queen told Sorcha her assistance was no longer needed; Maeve would not be returning to Eire.

Nor did she. She slept, those first years, in a little closet off Riona's private chambers, a tiny nook meant for a lady's maid or a wet nurse. She was treated at times like a doll, at others like a wild animal in need of taming. At the queen's command the palace servants scrubbed her down with hot water and rough wool twice a day, an edict she fought with feral violence until the fight became untenable even for a pigheaded fourteen-year-old. To a peasant child used to bathing in streams in summer and never at all in winter, and one with a natural aversion to water on top of that, this constant preoccupation with cleanliness made little sense.

Riona had her gowned in satin and velvet, gifted her with gold and jewels, but her will was unbending. When Maeve fought it, especially that first year, she was summarily beaten by big men with leather straps. Food was withheld. They tried leaving her outside in the cold overnight, but quickly learned this was no punishment. The cold did not bother her, and she was not afraid of the dark.

Slowly, not altogether unwillingly, she learned. Some lessons were easy: she took quickly to reading and writing, geography and languages, even music, to a degree. She adored her outdoor lessons—horseback riding and fighting, skills a poor peasant child had no reason to learn. She'd learned to track and hunt from an early age but not with hounds and hawks. She brawled from the time she could walk, and was decent with a bow, but swordwork was new to her. She took to horses and blades eagerly, and did her best when the court mages attempted to tame her magic. Every attempt failed, often spectacularly, and Riona finally put a stop to the magic lessons when the constant fiery damage to the palace outbuildings grew too great to ignore. In this one area the queen admitted defeat: her pet had powerful magic, but it could not be brought to heel.

The lessons of the court were harder, by far, than any others, but in this Riona was unbending. When Maeve arrived at court she didn't even know how to keep clean, let alone polished and pretty. Step by torturous step, the queen and her ladies civilized her. Often during those early years she felt like a chained bear trained to dance on command, only she could never learn the steps, could never find the rhythm. Many times she wondered bitterly why the queen even bothered. She wasn't of noble birth—wasn't even Fae, strictly speaking, though she'd grown up fostered in a Fae household. But Riona's court held plenty of other humans, ambassadors as well as permanent members of the household, mainly Celt, with a few members of more northerly tribes as well. She was never the lone human, though she felt exceedingly alone in other ways. She inhabited a strange in-between world, neither a servant nor a lady of the court. She was the queen's barbarian pet, her little project, and she loathed it as much as she felt the requisite gratitude for everything Riona gave her.

"I wonder, child," Sorcha says softly, "and have wondered many times, whether I did the right thing by bringing you to the queen." Her mouth twists, unable to decide whether to smile or frown. "I don't know what else I could have done. Our village was gone. The people who survived, human and Fae alike, had nothing. No homes. No crops. I don't know that anyone would have been willing to take you in without the queen's stipend. They would have starved with another mouth to feed."

"Many did anyway," Maeve says, dropping her eyes to the bottom of the tub. She's bleeding, a slow, thick, heavy flow that hurts to the point of extreme irritation, though not quite to intolerance. Now she knows why women don't insist on doing this every month. She closes her eyes, smelling blood and fighting back memories of those early days after the raid. People ate the bark off trees. They boiled and ate leather. They died slowly, eyes haunted by the shadows of those who did not survive the raid. Babies that would have been born were not. She didn't understand at the time, but she does now.

"I know," Sorcha says. "But it would have been worse. The couple that took you in received that first year's payment in food, not coin, and they shared out all they could. Without you, firestarter, and without the generosity of the people who fostered you, I don't think our village would have survived."

Maeve does not like hearing this, knowing this. She likes helping people, but she doesn't like knowing that the lives of so many depended on her when she was so young, when she herself did nothing but exist. Riona's whim saved those lives. Not her.

And Riona's whim is why she's here now, why she is what she is. Educated. Able to move freely between the glittering world of Riona's court and the stormy wilds of this snowswept mountain. She thinks about her parents, faces she barely remembers. Is she even truly their child anymore? She bites hard on the inside of her cheek. She doesn't look like them. Doesn't really remember them. She is thoroughly her queen's creation, and from far earlier than she previously realized. From the moment Sorcha first took her to the capital, skin still streaked with the soot of her parents' funeral pyre, she became Riona's. She's grateful, she supposes. How could she be otherwise, when a torturous early death was the alternative? But she doesn't like knowing how thoroughly her queen manipulated her childhood.

Maeve presses a hand to her cramping belly, biting her cheek hard enough to draw blood. "What was it all for?"

Sorcha shrugs. "It's not my place to question the queen's choices. She chose to save you, and since that time you've served her well. She got her money's worth and then some, if that's what you're asking. In my reckoning, anyway. But I'm glad you've found something more."

Maeve is, too. She wasn't unhappy in Aven and she would never claim to be. But she didn't know—had no idea—what it felt like to truly belong somewhere until Sinbad stumbled his way into her life. When she's with him, it feels like...like coming home, which is odd, considering that isn't a sensation she's ever felt before. Since the Viking raiders took her parents, she's lived in other people's houses, at other people's whim. But in Sinbad, this strange southern sailor, she's finally found her place. He is her home, and she's his. That's something she's not willing to give up, no matter what Riona wants. She loves him too ridiculously much to let him go now.

And the life he's offering her is exactly what she wants. He worries that she'll miss the trappings of court, the rich fabrics and pretty baubles, the opulent feasts and glittering revels, but he's worried for nothing. That's not who she is, and it never was. He's offering her a chance to see the world, to adventure with a band of truly good men, and honestly, even if she didn't love him, she'd want to go. She's not so sure about sailing, though she's willing to try, but a rough, honest life helping people and exploring the world is precisely what she'd pick for herself if given the choice. It's the freedom she lost when her world burned and Sorcha placed her in Riona's care, the freedom that was taken from her without her knowledge or accord.

"Lachlan says Riona won't let me go."

Sorcha makes a face. "What does he know? Is he privy to her musings? Last I checked he wasn't." She shifts her weight from one leg to the other. "She won't be happy about it, but she's an intelligent woman. Quite possibly the smartest woman I've ever met. She did her best to keep you, but even she can't work against fate." Her mouth twists. "You were sixteen when you swore your oath."

Maeve knows. She was two years too young, legally, but Riona makes the laws and no one had the authority or the will to gainsay her. Maeve herself gloated at the time, proud that her queen wanted her vow and dazzled by the glittering reception held in honor of the occasion.

"Do you know why Riona made you swear so young?"

Maeve shakes her head wordlessly. She'd never really thought to question it, honestly.

"The men of the court were watching you."

"Oh." Maeve snorts. "That much I knew." She received more and more male attention as Riona and her ladies wrestled her under control, teaching her to dress fashionably, to stand and walk with grace, to not just pay lip service to manners but put the etiquette lessons she loathed to good use. Creepy old men and not-so-creepy younger ones alike watched her, their eyes both calculating and hungry. She was young—too young by Fae standards, but not by much—and in very close proximity to power. She technically had no power of her own before she swore her vow, but Riona adored her and let her get away with impudence no one else would dare attempt. That put her in a unique position, one that made her very interesting to men at court. They wanted her for her youth, her beauty, and her relationship with the queen.

Maeve well remembers being so young, on the precipice of adulthood but not yet legally marriageable. She disdained the creepy old men no matter how they tried to flatter her, what trinkets and gifts they brought to sweeten her temperament. The young ones...were another story. Even among the nobility virginity was not considered important, and hers was long gone before she swore her oath of allegiance. Riona knew it, too—the vile herbal brew that would keep her from conceiving showed up abruptly on her breakfast tray one morning when she was fifteen, and that was that. Maeve had learned enough by that point to understand without a lecture. She was free to dally with the young men of the court as long as she attempted a semblance of discretion, but an unplanned pregnancy would not be tolerated while she was so close to the queen. The message was perfectly clear, and it was one she obeyed until Sinbad came along.

The Fae sensibilities toward sex suited Maeve just fine. She sought touch, wanted pleasure, but had no real desire for emotional entanglements. Whether that was her own personality or a reflection of the world in which she lived, she doesn't know. Either way, she wasn't interested in finding herself a husband, though many of the men of the court felt otherwise.

"What you may not have known was the inconvenience all that male attention was to the queen," Sorcha says, dry amusement lacing her voice. "Had one of them convinced you to marry before you swore fealty, your first loyalty would have been to your husband, not your queen. Riona wasn't about to let that happen."

Was that the reason behind her early vow? Maeve stares at her old friend. "Seriously? She knew me better than that. She had no reason to worry."

"You say not, but young girls can be easily swayed by a pretty face and sweet words. It almost happened to Niamh, Riona's niece. She was the girl's legal parent and was thus able to step in and stop it before any vows were said, but it was a close thing, and she was not willing to let it happen again. She desperately didn't want to lose you."

Maeve scowls. "She should have known better," she insists. "I'm not like other women. I wasn't then, and I'm not now."

"No?" Sorcha's eyes glimmer with acerbic mirth. "You're preparing to leave with a very pretty man, aren't you?"

"Shut up." Maeve brings a hand to her mouth to chew on a ragged hangnail. The small sting is better than the caustic bite of Sorcha's words. Yes, Sinbad is pretty. Her gut cramps and she bites down harder. She's a sucker for those sea-bright eyes, the broad smile that shows his crooked teeth. It's why she wanted him, why she lay with him so soon after meeting. But, ultimately, it's not why she fell in love with him. "He's not some calculating courtier. He hates this part of me. You should have seen when he got a look at me this morning. He wanted to rip that gown off of me, and not in a good way."

Sorcha laughs. "With a man as handsome as that, I doubt there's a bad way. How are you feeling?"

"Not great. But like you said, having a kid is worse."

"Far, far worse," Sorcha agrees. "As I'm sure you'll discover before long. But my point was that Riona wanted you, and was willing to do whatever it took to make sure she was your first priority. That was why she had you swear your oath so young."

This doesn't bother Maeve particularly. Riona is the queen. She has to be calculating. It's her job to always be several steps ahead of any hypothetical upset. Maeve wishes her queen thought better of her back then—knew her loyalty lay with the crown, not the men surrounding it. But she doesn't resent Riona for demanding her oath early. Maeve is a dangerous weapon, and she knows it. It only made sense that her queen would want to keep that weapon close.

"Sixteen or eighteen, I don't know that it really made any difference to me. I would have served her the same regardless."

"I hope that's true. I still don't like that she compelled a child to make a vow you might not truly have understood at the time."

"I understood enough." Whether expressly ordered by the queen or not, her tutors went over the oath of fealty with her in exacting detail. She knew, as much as anyone her age could be said to know, what she was getting into. She made her vow willingly. She couldn't have known, couldn't possibly have expected, what would happen on a distant mountain so many years in the future.

And swearing her oath resulted in a number of advantages. Though she was two years short of her majority, she was moved out of the little servant's cubby in Riona's rooms and given her own suite close to the queen's quarters, rooms that had last been occupied by Riona's dead niece. Her lessons continued but for the first time since she came to live in Riona's care she had time to herself as well—free hours to use as she wished, unfettered by the servants that had previously monitored her every movement. Her oath gave Riona trust in her, which opened up possibilities in her life she had not before entertained. She sat in on the queen's council meetings, not permitted to speak but encouraged to ask questions afterward, to gain an understanding of how the kingdom functioned. Best of all, she began to travel with Riona when the queen left Aven instead of being left behind like an old sock lost under the bed. These privileges far outweighed the burden of her vow.

Until now. She shifts in the tub as the cramping in her belly eases, Sorcha's allotted ten minutes nearly up. She knew nothing about the world when she made her vow—only what Riona wanted her to know. She doesn't blame her queen for that, but she's grown beyond what her monarch's world contains. She loves a nomad. He wants her to wander with him. His mentor may be able to help her understand her magic when no one in Riona's kingdom could. She needs this chance to see what she can make of this life she's been given.

"Are you feeling better?"

"Yeah." Physically, anyway. Her insides are still unsettled, and will be until she knows Riona won't raise a fuss about releasing her.

"Wash off, rinse out that tub, and you can get dressed again." Sorcha steps away. "I just wanted you to know, in case I never get another chance to tell you. I did this to you, every bit as much as Riona did. Even now I don't know what else I could have done, but for what it's worth, I never intended to trap you."

"You didn't, and neither did she. You saved me, and I'm grateful. I just need something else now."

"Well." Sorcha holds out a linen cloth to dry off. "Try not to fret. Riona won't be happy to lose you, but realistically, what can she do? If she demands that you remain in Aven, you'll either defy her outright or stay and be miserable. And frankly, when you're miserable everyone around you is, too."

"Thanks."

The older woman laughs. "The thing is, child, you're Celt through and through. Riona did her best to transform you into a Fae lady and in many ways she was successful, but she couldn't change what you are any more than she could snuff your fire."

Maeve reaches for her clothing as Sorcha talks.

"Celts, as you know, just aren't good at hiding what they feel. Your father's shout could shake the rafters when he really got going; that's something you share. If Riona doesn't release you she's setting herself up for a wretched rest of her life, and she's smart enough to know it." Sorcha moves to assist her with lacing the front of her gown back up.

Reassuring warmth fills Maeve's heart. She feels oddly comforted by Sorcha's assessment of her. Maybe she does have something of her parents left in her, after all. Maybe she isn't as completely Riona's creation as her queen thinks.

"There." Sorcha tosses the towel over her shoulder and wipes her hands. "You're good as new. Just remember to take caution if you don't want to conceive again. Once your moon-cycle returns it will be a possibility."

Maeve makes a face. "I liked it better when I thought I was barren."

Sorcha laughs. "Well, you and your sailor proved you're not, so now you have to take more care. I'll put together a batch of contraceptive herbs for you, if you like."

"Please. A big one." She's not sure when she'll be ready to start a family, but probably not for a long time.

"I'm supposed to return to Aven today, but I'll putter around here a bit. You come tell me what Riona says before you go." Sorcha hugs her tight and kisses her cheek. "He really has changed you, you know. I told you before, and I'm even more sure of it now. I can smell it—feel it. I can't explain it, but it's there."

Maeve knows. Even if she didn't believe it before, their union in the caverns erased all doubt. "I can feel him," she admits, rubbing the back of her neck with a soft palm. It's something she's mentioned to no one yet, not even to Sinbad. "When I went into the mountain to fight the demons I...merged with him somehow. I can't explain it, but for a handful of moments it was like we were the same person. I was inside him, or maybe he was inside me. I don't know. But ever since then, I can feel him. Like something moving just on the edge of my vision. He's there now, if I concentrate." It's unnerving, and were it anyone else in the world she would be at the door of the most powerful mage in Aven, demanding that he figure out how to undo whatever's been done. But it's Sinbad. She's not sure she likes the deep intimacy of this bond, but she's unwilling to sever it. They're in this together now. Kismet, as she told him when they met.

"It's fascinating. Were I a mage rather than a healer I would probably demand the right to study such a thing. I don't know of any precedent for a bond like that. But you've never played by anyone's rules except your own, so I'm not entirely surprised. And I can say, as a healer, that it doesn't seem to have harmed you. Changed, yes. But not harmed."

That much Maeve herself knows: Sinbad could never harm her. It's not in him. She hugs Sorcha one final time and leaves the infirmary, mind full of her conversation and her continuing worry about what Riona will do. Maybe Dim-Dim can explain this bond if she asks him. She's still a little unnerved by the little old man, but like everyone Sinbad is closest to, he's too good to be suspicious of for long. And if he can't explain it, Maeve won't mind. Defining this bond won't change it, just as defining her fire can't change who she is. These things just are. She accepts them fully, as she accepts Sinbad and the massive changes his arrival made to her life. As far as she's concerned, it's just part of a new adventure.

But as she glides on silent feet through the corridors of Odhran's mountain palace, the soft little spark in the back of her mind that is Sinbad dims. She freezes, feeling the flavor of his presence, salt-sweet but tinged with something alarming, something that tells her she needs to find him. Her feet lead her swiftly not down to the lower floor where she left him, but to her little chamber higher in Odhran's palace.

* * *

He's numb.

His feet stumble over nothing as he climbs stairs and passes through corridors. He's not clumsy and he never normally stumbles, but he feels divorced from his body. He can't feel anything. His head spins too fast to catch hold of any coherent thoughts save one: he's going to lose her. After everything they both risked, after everything they survived, he's going to lose her anyway.

Whatever guides his steps, it's not his mind. Instinct, maybe. His feet lead him not back to the dining hall, where he left his crew, but up to Maeve's little room higher in the large, rambling palace.

It's empty. He blinks, feeling a sort of blank stupidity that reminds him of a hangover. Of course her room is empty. He left her downstairs, too. The queen bade her stay when she took him away to talk. Maeve didn't like it but she obeyed, as she's always obeyed her queen. As she will continue to, even when Riona bids her to leave this place, to return west with her monarch. Once given Maeve's loyalty doesn't falter, and it was given to her queen first.

His chest aches, a physical pain far worse than the lingering ache in his healing gut. Something presses on his chest, constricting his lungs, clamping like a vise over him, hard and heavy, dense and dark. He's never felt like this before. Drawing breath grows difficult. Is this what a broken heart feels like? Like a shattered bone, something inside feels crushed.

He worried since learning of Maeve's oath that her monarch wouldn't release her, but he had no idea she was actually the heir. How could he? Maeve doesn't know it herself. He stares numbly out the window, inhaling the faint smoky sweetness that lingers in the room. For once, it doesn't soothe him.

He wants her desperately now, wants her here beside him for whatever time remains to them, but his feet refuse to move. This secret, this thing he knows and she does not, yawns like a gulf between them and he doesn't know how to cross it. It's not his place to tell her what he knows, and yet how can he not? How can he look her in the eye and pretend he doesn't know what her queen has planned for her—a life of luxury, yes, but also unending servitude? One she would not choose for herself. He knows her, and knows as surely as he knows his own heartbeat that she will not want what her queen intends.

And Sinbad himself? It's not his place to tell her. This is between Maeve and her ruler. He's involved only tangentially, an obstacle standing between Riona and her heir. He doesn't know how long Maeve has served her queen, but the relationship is far older than his. Deep, too, if he's any judge. Maeve doesn't seem very attached to the Fae couple who fostered her but she is attached to the queen who took her into service, who taught and elevated her. The tangled web of love and power strung between the two women is nothing he'll ever be able to truly understand. He loves his own mentor, the sorcerer who took him and his brother to raise after their parents' deaths, but it's not the same thing at all. Dim-Dim never saw him as a tool or a commodity, whereas Maeve is exactly that to Riona.

It's not an inherently bad thing, he tries to tell himself. Maeve benefits from her position as much as the queen does. But nothing in their association is simple or straightforward. Riona is far older. Holds the highest office in the land. She's also served as Maeve's teacher, her guide, molding the younger woman to be what she wanted her to be. But Maeve, like the fire at her heart, can't be subjugated as easily as that. She's a thing of near-myth, as both Dim-Dim and Riona stated. She is the only person alive with her unique talents. That gives her more power in her relationship with her queen than she otherwise would have. Whether she knows this or not, Sinbad honestly doesn't know. She's cheeky and impudent with her queen and gets away with it, but any pet favorite might do the same. Whether she really knows how much power she wields over her monarch, as a fire-child and also as the heir Riona so desperately needs, Sinbad has no idea. It's likely she's never had cause to truly rebel before.

She does now, but she doesn't know it yet. She doesn't know that her queen has no intention of releasing her from her vow, nor does she know that Riona wants her for her heir. And he can't tell her. It's not his place, and he doesn't want to be forced into it. He loves that woman with everything he is, and he desperately doesn't want to be the one to shatter her world so abruptly.

But will Riona confess, as he urged? He doubts it. She has no incentive to. Maeve is going to explode when she learns what her queen has planned; that was always going to be the case, with or without him. He wonders when Riona planned to tell her. On her deathbed, when Maeve had no room to refuse? His mouth twists bitterly. He doesn't want this to be a battle between him and the queen, but it looks like he has no choice. No matter what, Maeve is going to have to choose.

And she can't choose him. He leans his brow and forearms against the leaded glass window, ice-cold and streaked with rivers of half-frozen condensation. She can't choose him unless Riona releases her from her vow, and she has no reason to do that. Maybe if she loved Maeve more than she needed her, but she doesn't. Or, as she put it, she can compartmentalize. He believes her when she says she loves her firestarter. But she needs her heir more than she loves the wild Celt she tamed.

Through the wet glass the courtyard below looks like a white wasteland. Inside, Sinbad feels the same. Frozen. Numb. How is he supposed to trudge down this mountain and board his ship, sail south without her? A man can learn to live without sight, without hearing. Without a leg, an arm. Rongar manages without his voice. But Sinbad doesn't know if he can survive without his heart. If he can live with the memory of her bare arms wrapping around him, her tired voice as she agreed so easily, so happily, to come south with him. For a while, such a short while, everything was perfect, and perfectly simple. She didn't argue or fuss about traveling so far, learning to sail or swim. He didn't have to cajole or even compromise. She just tucked her sweet self against his chest, holding him tight, and said yes. Like an overturned boat, he was adrift and sinking while he struggled under the mountain, lost without her. That simple agreement righted his keel, but now he's sinking once more.

He doesn't blame her. He could never blame her. But fuck, this hurts. Losing Leah as a child changed his world but didn't end it. This new, looming loss feels like it's going to tip him over the edge into a void he can't climb out of.

A soft noise sounds behind him. The latch lifts, door opens.

"_L__eannán_."

He still doesn't really know what that means, but it melts him when she says it. A tight knot forms in his throat. He struggles to swallow against it. Why can't they just run away? He has a ship, a fast one. They can be gone now, asail by nightfall. Down the river, headed for the Black Sea and ultimately home. He'll show her Constantinople, sail through the Bosporus, and from there the might of the south can protect them even if Riona tries to exact revenge. Both the caliph of Baghdad and the sultan of Basra protect him; surely Riona would know better than to take on two of the strongest rulers in the south?

But Maeve will never do it. He knows without asking. She'll leave her queen's service honorably or not at all.

Warm hands wind sensuously through his hair and ease over his shoulders. Her perfect, soft mouth touches his throat, her sweet, familiar heat pressing gently against his body. His eyes close spasmodically as he turns his head from the window, breathing her in.

"Tell me what happened." Her voice is level and even. "Whatever she said, we can figure it out."

She knows it didn't go well. How, he doesn't know, but he can't say he's entirely surprised. He's just glad she's here. His arms fall away from the cold window and he turns. He doesn't know how to answer, but he needs her. His arms reach for that warm, muscled body, gathering her tight against him. They clamp down, holding her too hard. His wounded gut protests. She does not. Her arms grip him firmly and she squeezes back, the strength of her hold lending him heart. He presses as close as he can get, burying his face in the crook of her neck and breathing her in, hot skin and smoky honey, warm and melting-sweet.

"My sailor." One hand glides up his back, hot on the nape of his neck before sliding into his hair. Her fingers wind through the silky brown strands. The heat of her palm bleeds into his scalp as she cradles his head, so warm, physically soothing though it does nothing for the ache in his heart. "I can hear you now, if I concentrate. Feel you there, in the back of my mind. Ever since the caverns. I know something's wrong. But together we're stronger than whatever it is."

So that's how she knows. If she were anyone else, even Doubar, he'd demand a way to stop it. That's too personal; he doesn't want anyone else to be able to feel what he feels.

Except her.

His arms tighten still further, almost shaking with the force of his hold. A little huff of air escapes her but she doesn't complain. Her hand continues to cup his head, stroking his hair just a little, warm and gentle.

"I can't." He's not a man of words and he's at a loss to explain to her everything he now knows. It will crush her.

"No?" She pulls away—not far, just far enough to meet his eyes. "Have you not a tongue in your head?"

His mouth captures hers forcefully. He has a tongue and he's very good at using it in various ways, as she damn well knows. Just not, at this precise moment, for speaking. He kisses her hard, her smoky-sweet taste filling his senses, her fire flaring high in response.

She bites his tongue, the pain sharp and hard. He welcomes it. She's always been aggressive about sex, taking what she wants, and they're wonderfully well matched in this. He holds her tight, willing her sweet fire to soothe the overwhelming pain of knowing he's going to lose her. He needs it to stop, just stop, so he can breathe again. Function again.

"Riona owes me." She moves her mouth away from his for a moment, speaking against his lips. "She can't tell me I can't go." That gorgeous mouth returns to his, sucking on his lip, her hands hard on his shoulders.

It's a nice sentiment, but it's not true. Her queen absolutely can tell her she's not going anywhere, and has. Maeve just doesn't know it yet.

But he can't let her go. Physically, right now, he just can't do it. He kisses the smooth, sleek line of her throat and his hands flex, fingers digging into that plush, gods-be-damned velvet. It's soft and perfect and he hates everything about it. His anger surges; he gathers fistfuls of fabric and yanks, ripping the skirt down the seam.

Maeve pulls her mouth from his, craning her head to see over her shoulder. "You could have just asked," she says mildly.

"I hate this." The velvet, yes. Everything else about this day, too.

"You hated my leathers, too. Told me to wear skirts like other women." She unties the silk cord lacing her into her gown.

Did he really say that? If so, he was crazy. That skintight leather may be difficult to peel her out of, but it's who she is. "I was wrong."

"As usual." She lifts yards of burgundy velvet over her head with swift grace. He helps, glad to be rid of it. "What did Riona say, Sinbad? I know she can be scary, but you don't usually let people get under your skin." Her hands fall to the lacing of his vest, swiftly undoing it. "I went to Sorcha while you were in audience with Riona. I'm fine, so that's twice today you were wrong." Her perfect, mocking smirk doesn't even irritate him right now. He kisses it, hungry for the taste of her. He'll be wrong all the time—he'll be wrong on purpose and let her rub his nose in it every time, just as long as he can keep her.

She kisses him back, hard and demanding and everything he wants. The taste of her smoky sweetness invades him, imprinting deep into his body, his brain. This sweetness is all his. She bites his lip, then sucks hard, as he releases her hair from its braid and digs a hand through those thick curls, holding her still as he kisses her. Pleasure crashes through him, sweet-hot and intense. He'll always melt for her. Every single time.

But he can't tell her what Riona said. She needs to know, but it's not his place, and he was tongue-tied even before she kissed him. Now he's hopelessly lost, seeking desperately to drown his sorrows not in wine but in her.

"Off." He tugs insistently on the thin, almost sheer linen chemise under her gown. It's not as offensive as that fucking velvet, but right now he hates everything that interferes with his eyes, his hands. His cock.

She lifts the fine linen over her head, dropping it to the floor next to the heap of wrinkled velvet. "Come here."

Always. Wherever she wants him, however she wants him. He's helpless when she looks at him like that, her eyes dark fire, her inner flame burning bright, prickling his skin. His mouth locks with hers once more.

She wants answers but for the moment she desists, her hands impatient on his clothing, her mouth eager for his kiss. He steps forward until the backs of her knees hit the mattress and she sinks willingly onto it. He follows instantly, covering that sweet body with his. The fear that he's going to lose her fuels his insistence that he's not giving up a moment of this. Not until he's forced to.

"I love you, _l__eannán_." He nips that gorgeous lower lip before taking it in his teeth and biting harder.

Her answering whine is high and sweet, her hands tightening on the leather of his borrowed trousers. "Love you," she pants, breathy with want, as her hands peel him out of his vest. His boots thud hollowly when they hit the floor. "But you have to talk to me. I tried keeping something from you and it didn't work out so great. I don't want to play that game again."

He's not playing anything, he swears he's not. The words just won't come. He nips her chin and presses tiny kisses along the silken line of her jaw as she eases his shirt gently free of his trousers, careful as the linen rubs his scabbed wounds. The salve has helped; nothing sticks. Even if it had, Sinbad doesn't think he'd care. His hands are on her hot skin and fuck, nothing else matters.

He reaches for what he most wants, palm sliding over her flat belly, intent on the wet heat between her legs. She said she went to Sorcha, he distinctly remembers her saying that, so he refuses to worry any longer. But, for the first time, she pulls away from his seeking hand.

"Nuh-uh." She shakes her head firmly, fingers light and teasing along the waistband of his trousers. "Not until you tell me what Riona said."

Fucking hell. He shakes his head tightly. She needs to know, but he can't tell her. "It's not my place," he says, willing her to understand. She needs to hear this from her queen, not from him.

Fire flares in those dark eyes, the sweetness gone, eclipsed by anger. Like a struck spark, she's instantly furious. "Your _place_?" she demands, voice incredulous. Her legs wrap around his, sleek and strong, and she flips them effortlessly. His back slams into the feather mattress as she straddles him. "Your _place_ is with me."

Fuck, yes, it is. Preferably inside her, which is where he aches to be right now. She's perfectly placed, hot pressure just where he needs it, if the damn leather of his borrowed trousers wasn't in the way. His fingers dig into her hard thighs. "Not according to Riona."

Her eyes narrow dangerously. "Tell me what she said."

"You need to hear it from her." If she really can feel him in her mind as she claims, shouldn't she understand? "She might have me executed if I say something she doesn't want me to."

A speculative gleam enters those stunning dark eyes. She's so very beautiful. And so very deadly. "Are you more scared of her, or of me? Because most men are more afraid of me. Even when I'm not on top of them." Her hips rock firmly, pressing the melting heat between her legs against his clothed groin.

It's a very good question, and one he struggles to answer as he grips her tightly. She'll wear bruises in the shape of his fingers by morning. Riona is a tiny thing, but her captain of the guard hates him and will happily bring her his head if she demands it. On the other hand, Maeve is...Maeve.

Before he can even begin to formulate a tactful answer, she swears. "You want to be afraid of her? Fine." She lowers her head and kisses his mouth softly, which...isn't what he expects. "You're mine," she murmurs, a whisper against his mouth. "I'm yours. I'm sick of having to say it." Her hands yank hard at his trousers. They don't move much, but it's enough for what she wants.

"Don't move," she says, pecking his mouth gently.

"I wouldn't dream of it."

"I want to try something."

He's not quite sure what she means—she's ridden him plenty of times. He likes it because it frees his hands to touch her. Now he holds his breath, watching as her body sinks down, aligning with his. And oh, fuck, he can't worry about whatever else she may or may not be planning in that head of hers, because her slick heat is pressing against the head of his cock. He groans, hands shifting from her thighs to her hips as, for the first time since he let himself be captured by the wendigo, he sinks into the wet heat of her sweet body.

She lowers herself slowly onto him a little at a time, accustoming herself once more to his thickness, the sweet stretch as he fills her. Her palms brace on his chest, a pleased moan leaving her mouth as she settles into place, his cock sheathed deeply within her.

She leans forward, draping her body along his, kissing him softly once more. "There you are."

Yes, there he is. Exactly where he wants to stay forever. He releases his bruising grip on her hips and slides his arms around her.

Her mouth opens, a sweet peck turning deeper. "Hold on, _l__eannán_," she breathes.

And dives.

Her fire blazes hot, hotter, expanding, unfurling like a kindled bonfire. She glows in his arms, red and gold-orange flickers traveling over her skin, but she remains a woman of flesh and blood, her body hot in his arms, tight as her inner walls squeeze him. He gasps, sucking in a harsh breath as a little tickle in the back of his mind uncurls, shimmering to life, a deliciously hot flame with a flavor he knows well. She's with him once more, as she was in the cavern under the mountain, a distinct entity but part of him, too. It's beyond intimate, intensely personal, as she strokes his soul softly. There's no way to hide what he knows, no way to prepare her or break it to her gently. What he knows, she knows. What she feels, he feels. He holds her body tight as comprehension dawns.

The shock that reverberates through them both doesn't surprise him. Neither does the torrent of other emotion that follows fast, lightning-quick flashes of grief, sorrow, and regret, a jumbled, confused tumult he feels as keenly as if it were his own. And yes, close upon the heels of that maelstrom of chaotic feeling comes a blinding tide of anger.

Has she ever been angrier? Not that he's witnessed. This isn't how he wanted her to find out, though there's nothing he can do about it now. He holds her tight, wraps himself around her both physically and psychically, knowing he can't cushion the blow but intent on giving whatever comfort he can. She quakes, the bright spark of her fire shuddering with the force of her shock. She curls into him, her cheek to his clavicle, her soul to his soul, body mimicking spirit as she instinctively reaches for support, for something steady to hold to as the foundation of her world shifts and then shatters.

With any other person, fear or sorrow might be the prevailing emotion. Grief. Regret. And yes, she curls into him, her arms tight around his body, seeking solace for a moment. But only for a moment.

_I should have known._ Her voice sounds inside him once again, as intimate and immediate as his own inner speech.

_How could you?_ Her queen doesn't want her to know. _You'll make an incredible queen_. Of this he has no doubt. She'll hate it, but she'll be good at it.

_I absolutely will not._ Her disgust at the idea sparks through him as if it were his own. _I'm going to be an indifferent sailor, but one hell of a __partner for you. Never a queen._ Her body shifts, her head untucking from its spot pressed against his throat.

_Riona will not allow it._

_ Don't you ever bet against me._

Normally he never would. She's aggressive, used to getting her way, and prone to violence when necessary. But after just one conversation with her queen, he knows that woman is ruthless in pursuit of what she wants.

_So am I._ Maeve's words are hard and hot, spoken into his mind. She's not afraid of her queen, and she's not in shock anymore. Now she's just pissed off.

Her fire flares hotter, fury overtaking desire, burning through both of them. But she's not mad at him. He assumed she would be—she was, in fact, when he struggled to tell her what she wanted to know. Now her ire shifts, directed not at him but at her queen.

And, to his surprise, at herself.

_I didn't do it on purpose._ The flavor of her anger alters, turning bitter. _My kid. But she's right. I should have known what would happen. I didn't think. I should have._

He holds her tightly, inside and out. He hates the bitter taste of her self-contempt, and hates her queen for putting that thought in her head in the first place. _Could anyone else have gone into the mountain and freed everyone? Killed all the demons, with absolute certainty that none escaped?_

_ No._ The sullen tinge to her mind-voice says she does not want to admit this.

_Then what difference does it make, whether you realized the cost before or not? What would it have changed?_

Nothing, and she knows it. She would still have entered the caverns to free the captives and kill the wendigos. She had no choice.

_Mourn all you like, sweetheart. Mourn what might have been. That's your right. But don't blame yourself __when you had no choice._

She lets herself be soothed, at least for now. His body supports hers, his soul cradling her fire. This might-have-been will continue to haunt her; he can feel the shadow of it still falling along the bright spark of her soul. Not the miscarriage, which happens to nearly all women, but the dark spectre that whispers it was her fault. That she caused it deliberately, when she didn't. Riona put that whisper there, and he hates her queen for it.

_Don't think about her. Not right now. Love me, please._

That's something she never has to ask for. He's hers for life, no matter what happens. His mouth touches hers and he flexes his thighs, his thick length shifting deeper inside her. The pleasure of that small movement burns through them both, a strange reverberation thrumming through him like an echo. Curious, he tries again.

And oh, that's so good. Beyond anything he's ever felt before. Her fire flares in her own delighted response, burning bigger, hotter, blazing like a beacon. He presses a hand between their bodies and strokes his thumb experimentally over her hard little clit. Pleasure burns through him, bright-hot, though he's not fucking her, not moving anything except his thumb.

She's as shocked as he as mutual pleasure redoubles and echoes through their linked bodies, but she recovers quicker. _More_, she begs, moving her pelvis slowly, rocking into him, basking in the intense sensation of merged pleasure, both his and hers, bleeding into a sensual puddle of blind desire. _More. Please._

Always. She says not to bet against her, so he won't. He'll have faith that she can best her queen in this fight. Even if she doesn't, he'll never stop loving her. He's not capable of that.

His free hand covers her breast as she shifts, beginning to move slowly on top of him. It's pure bliss—not just a singular point of pleasure, not just the sensation of her tight heat gripping his cock. Her pleasure burns inside him, echoing and fueling his own. He can feel the touch of his own hands, bursts of heat and sensation as he strokes her skin, caresses her clit. He's there, wrapped around her, though he honestly doesn't know at this point where bodies end and souls begin, or if in this moment there's any difference between the two. He sucks on her tongue, moving more confidently within her as he accustoms himself to the sensation. Fuck, sex with anyone else is definitely ruined for him now.

_It better be._ Her amused thoughts filter through his own mind.

_And if I lose you?_

_ You won't._ She's firm. _I refuse. I am a weapon, not a leader._ She hooks her arm behind his shoulders and rolls them, ceding her position on top, giving him control. Or at least the illusion of it, he concedes, which earns him a flicker of laughter from her. He's not stupid. He only has whatever control she grants him. He's freely admitted that from the beginning.

_You can be my captain._ She sucks in a slow breath of purely sexual pleasure as he strokes out and then back in, deep and sweet. _I'll obey. Mostly. Probably._

He knows. She wants her own autonomy, but she doesn't seek power. Not over him, nor over a kingdom. _I run a casual ship. I'll never ask for more than you can give._

The sensual purr that buzzes through his brain and body is her pleased response, though whether to his words or the way he's moving inside her, he doesn't know. Neither does she. She melts into the mattress, mouth locked with his as he fucks her, long, forceful thrusts, just as she likes. The muscles in his abdomen ache but it's a good pain. He'll feel this tomorrow, and he looks forward to it. He wants her touch seared into his skin, wants to wear her bruises like badges of honor. He wants to leave his seed in her so every gods-be-damned Fae in this gods-be-damned palace knows she's his.

_They're well aware, __l__eannán._

Good. Now if only her queen got the message.

_I'll __make sure she does__._ Even her thoughts within him hitch as his teeth latch onto the side of her neck and bite down. It hurts, and she loves it. She tips her head to the side, offering him a better angle, freely letting him mark her. Her pleasure bleeds through both of them. _None of this is your fault, and she had no right to put you in that position. Nor to keep her plans from me._

Sinbad absolutely does not want to be around for that confrontation. He will never, ever bet against his girl, but Riona is much older, much more seasoned, and very accustomed to getting her own way. He's a little afraid for Odhran's palace and everyone in it.

Her soft laughter is like a bright shower of little sparks inside him. She shifts her hips and meets him at a different angle, and oh, that's good. For both of them. He groans and drops his head into the crease of her shoulder, fucking her deep, the thick head of his cock stimulating a spot inside her that makes her body sing. She tenses around him, nearing the edge.

_Never this good before you_. Even inside him her voice is tight as everything within her coils, tensing, aching for release.

_It's your magic._

_ Our magic,_ she disagrees. _I couldn't do this on my own._

He has never before been accused of having magic, but he's not going to argue with her. Especially not when her body moves like this, fucking him back so good, so deep, little panting whimpers leaving her mouth as she pleads wordlessly for what she wants, what she craves. The movements of her hips become erratic. He slips a hand between them and strokes her clit again, her liquid desire hot and slick against his thumb, allowing him to glide so smoothly as he fucks her, as he rolls the pad of his thumb over that hard little ruby. Pleasure laps around them like the warm shallows of a southern bay, lovely and sweet but not enough. She whines and pushes her hips against his, fighting for more.

He knows. Just as she knows everything, so does he. He takes her clit carefully between his fingers and pinches. Hard.

She explodes. As that gorgeous cunt contracts around him, he's helpless to do otherwise. Pleasure engulfs him and her fire flares hot, hotter, searing and sweet. Oh, motherfucking gods. He swears, just before greying out, that nothing could ever be better than this.

* * *

Sinbad blinks. Maeve's sweet smoke scent drifts around them as his mind slowly comes back into focus. He's alone in his body once more, but she's still physically with him. He has nothing to fear as long as that remains true. He collapsed on top of her minutes ago, and he can feel the aching sting in the meat of his shoulder that tells him yes, she bit him during that furious, blinding perfection as they came together.

His heart hasn't quite calmed and Maeve isn't pushing him to get off of her, so he stays where he is, his softened length still within her, his sweaty body tight against hers. A low hum of animal satisfaction leaves her body and her head shifts. She licks the throbbing spot where she bit him.

"I think you broke skin that time." Not that he really cares. She can bite him all she likes, as long as she stays.

"I did." She sounds sleepy and sated and immensely pleased with herself.

"You sure you're not part werewolf?" He strokes his palm along the hot, sleek skin of her flank. "You sure nothing happened when your fist knocked out some werewolf teeth out on the mountain?"

Her chuckle is low and lazy. "Nope. I'm all Celt."

All Celt is all good with him. His finger strokes the mark his own teeth left on her throat, more red than violet, though it will darken over the next day. He likes seeing it there. Far too much, in fact. Maybe there's something to this constant biting she does.

"That was…" He exhales, finding no words in his burnt-out brain to describe that encounter.

"It was," she agrees. Her palm glides down his sweaty back. "Let me turn?"

He raises himself enough to let her move. His length slips from inside her, which he hates, but he has no energy for a second round right now. She turns onto her side and presses back into him, inviting him to spoon. He does gladly, drawing her firmly against his chest, nestling his cheek into her damp red curls. "You're indescribable, _l__eannán_, but I don't know that I can take it like that every time."

"I don't think it will be." She yawns. "You were being weird about your talk with Riona, so I wanted to see if I could get it from you some other way."

She managed to do that and then some. He kisses her shoulder. "I'm sorry."

"You don't have to apologize." She lifts her hand, feeling blindly behind her until she finds his cheek. "Just don't hide from me. Please."

"I wasn't trying to. I wanted you to hear the truth from her. Not from me."

"I know that now, and I understand. But I'd rather you just told me." Her hand is gentle, her voice lazy and slow.

He tightens his arms around her. "What do we do now?"

"I'll deal with her. I don't want any part of her plan, and I refuse to give you up." A note of steel enters her voice.

"And if she still won't free you?"

She sighs unhappily. "I don't know yet. I'm not ready to think about burning that bridge unless I have to."

He knows. She owes a lot to her queen, though Riona owes her a lot, too. In a final reckoning he doesn't know who would come out on top. But Maeve's will is stronger than any he's ever encountered before, and while Riona may say she taught her everything, she didn't teach her that. That's all Maeve.

"I will never demand that you break your vow, _l__eannán_."

She already knows. She was just inside him. Her hand glides through his hair, her touch infinitely soothing. "I'm honestly a little insulted that she thinks bearing half-blood children will make me more acceptable to her subjects." She snorts lightly. "Celts have been bearing them time out of mind. There's no guarantee what they'll be. Look at me. Look at Sorcha. We're both mutts of some degree." She's facing away from him, but he can hear the roll of her eyes in her voice.

"She has a point. It's not unusual with royal marriages." He struggles to keep his arms gentle.

"She thinks someone like Lachlan can cool me down, but it's not gonna happen." She mutters something he can't quite hear under her breath. He suspects it's a curse. She has one of the filthiest mouths he's ever heard—in that respect she'll fit in well among sailors.

"You did have a relationship."

She returns to her back, dark honey eyes meeting his. "We have a professional working relationship, and an acquaintanceship. I don't know if I'd even call him a friend. But he wanted me from the beginning. I knew it. Everyone knew it. I was close with Riona, and he was envious of both of us because of it." She snorts humorlessly. "Maybe he saw what I didn't. What I should have." She scowls.

"There was no reason for you to know what she was planning." He draws her into his chest and kisses her forehead gently. "She didn't want you to know, and she's not stupid."

"She's the smartest person I've ever met. Except maybe that old sorcerer of yours." She frowns. "He's hard to fathom."

"He raised me and I still find him hard to fathom, so don't feel bad about it."

She winds her arm around his waist and nestles close. Sinbad melts. He loves her fire, yes, but when she's sweet like this she turns him to jelly. "In any case, I didn't have a relationship with Lachlan. Not the way you mean. I slept with him, yes, but for the Fae that doesn't have to mean anything. And it didn't."

Not for her. The iceman is another story. Sinbad has seen the way the man's ice-blue eyes linger on her, the envy burning in his veins when she touches Sinbad. He's been taught to hide it but he's not good enough to conceal everything. Sinbad kisses her soft curls. He holds her close and breathes that smoke-sweet scent. She's perfect, and he adores her. He can't blame the iceman for wanting her, for struggling to hold onto something he never had in the first place, but he needs to get a clue. So does his queen. Maeve's made her choice.

He stretches slowly, and for the first time takes note of their surroundings. "Sweetheart, that was beyond amazing, but I think I'm glad it won't happen every time I touch you."

"Why not?"

"I'm not sure my ship would survive."

She frowns, withdrawing her head from its spot tucked against his shoulder, and reluctantly opens her eyes. She snickers as she surveys the damage.

His leather trousers were tangled on his thighs the last he remembers. They're ash now. The soft linen sheets have burned away, and he's lying directly on the thick canvas mattress, which was probably a drab undyed beige before he tempted Maeve's fire. It's black now. The heavy, pale silver wood of the bed frame thankfully isn't burning, though it is scorched black in places.

Maeve laughs.

"How is that funny? You complained about the price of replacing your clothes last time you burned them away. How much more does a bed like this cost?"

She sits up, stretching slowly. "Are you kidding? That's fucking hilarious." She laughs, staring at the charred, ruined mess of the big bed. "I blame Riona for all of it. If she hadn't put you in a mood, it never would have happened. Let her pay for it." She snickers and rises from the mattress. Her entire back, including that glorious ass, is black with soot.

"Those were my extra clothes, you know." He smacks the tempting curve of her ass, leaving a very clear handprint.

She yelps with surprise, but doesn't actually protest. "I'll find you something. Unless you want to borrow a gown."

"Don't even."

"The Celt men on Britannia like to wear wool skirts. They call them kilts."

"And plenty of men in many places wear long tunics and robes. I do not. Besides, I wouldn't fit in anything sized for you." He drops a kiss on her shoulder. "Come have a bath before you go fight with your queen." He's not much for this habit of constant bathing, and he'd love nothing more than for Maeve to leave the residue of their coupling on her body, _in_ her body, but they're covered in soot yet again.

A flicker of irritation kindles in her dark eyes. "Serve her right if I went barging in just like this."

"Just like that?" He has no right to stop her if she really wants to, but he's not entirely keen on Odhran's entire palace getting that much of an eyeful. Not to mention his crew. On the mountain was one thing—she had to go into the fire in order to live, and fire and cloth don't get along. Storming out of her bedroom covered in nothing but ashes is a very different situation.

A slow, deviously speculative smile blooms across her expressive mouth. "Bet she wouldn't be so quick to try to name me her heir if I did that."

He knows that look in her eye. The firm set of her shoulders. She glances down at her body, which he knows full well she's brazenly unashamed of. Her lovely mouth shifts from speculative to determined. She's tall and pale and perfect, streaked black with soot and ash, peppered here and there with bruises and raw red marks from her struggles on the mountain. She's also wearing his handprint very clearly on the cute curve of her ass, his bite low on her throat, and his seed inside her. He can't smell himself on her, but everyone else in this palace will.

And that seems to be exactly what she intends. She presses a soft kiss to his mouth, pulling away with that wicked smile back in place. "This is going to be fun." She turns for the door, lifts the latch, and very deliberately steps out into the corridor.

Sinbad struggles for three heartbeats, unsure what to do. His loaned clothes burned, and his own haven't been returned to him yet. But this isn't a confrontation he can miss. With no better option, he winds a damp linen towel from the bathing room around his waist and hurries after her.


	19. Chapter 19

**The Mountain**

Pairing: Maeve/Sinbad  
Rating: M (language, sex, violence)  
Setting: Alternate  
All standard disclaimers apply

* * *

Maeve has no shame about her body, nor should she. She strides through Odhran's palace, swift and angry and stunning, her red hair bright and gleaming, a waterfall of flame-colored curls over her shoulders and down her back. The people they encounter in the corridors stare, and universally duck quickly away. From his place just behind her Sinbad can't see her expression, but he knows it's not a pleasant one. Everyone here is intelligent enough to keep out of her way.

He was never much of a student as a child, but something about Maeve's purposeful strides, the fierce set of her face, reminds him of Caesar's description of the Celts, read to him by firelight late one night when he was young: a terrifying, warlike people who removed their body hair, decorated themselves with tattoos and body paint, and disdained clothes when going into battle so as to confound their enemies. How much of the ancient emperor's words are actually true Sinbad doesn't know, but right now this woman looks every bit the savage warrior Caesar described. She's painted with soot and ash, not pigments, but his sooty handprint on the firm curve of her ass is unmistakable, his red-violet tooth-marks low on the side of her throat bright against the cream of her skin. She's making a flagrant stand. She is not Fae, nor is she the queen's to control. She's Celt, and she's made her choice.

They do not speak; there's nothing to say. He's here for her, no matter what happens, and she knows this. She needs no encouragement. She breathes steadily, softly, her inner fire bright and hot. This is her fight and he won't butt in, but he's with her should she need it. He'll always be with her.

She strides unerringly for a part of the palace unfamiliar to Sinbad. The wooden paneling is richer here, the floors highly polished. The ceilings rise high above him, and Sinbad glimpses carved wooden faces and animal figures adorning the sturdy wooden rafters.

Rounding a corner, they find themselves just outside what must be Odhran's great hall, his throne room. Two guards flank the tall, imposing double doors and Sinbad hears the sound of a crowd within. Lovely. He takes a breath and stiffens his spine. Maeve wants to make a spectacle, so they're making a spectacle. He'll always have her back no matter what, but he wishes he didn't have to do it with just a length of linen wrapped around his waist.

The guards do not try to prevent their passage, and to their credit they try their best to remain stoic, eyes ahead, face devoid of emotion. Sinbad can see the flick of their eyes as they struggle not to stare. He gets it. He doesn't like it, but he gets it. Were he in their place, he'd be staring, too. Maeve is imposingly beautiful, vengefully angry, and his marks on her body, his scent clinging to her skin, say very clearly what they've just been doing. The Fae seem to have a fairly laid-back attitude toward sex, but not _that_ laid-back. The queen is going to be furious when she sees her firestarter, the wild Celt she thinks she tamed. The coming encounter will be an explosion. Both women are uncompromising, Riona an immovable object, Maeve an unstoppable force. He wonders what Firouz would claim science had to say about such a collision.

Maeve shoves her way through the heavy doors, ignoring the guards. The crowd of agitated Fae beyond drops into silence at the slam of the doors, the swift steps of the beautiful, naked woman whose hair is going to start dripping sparks at any moment. They part like magic, allowing her passage as she marches toward the low dais at the far end of the room.

"Do it," she challenges, loud and resonant, stilling with Sinbad just behind her, staring at the queen on the dais. "Name me heir. Right now. I dare you."

She's perfect. Fearless. She taunts her queen, the most powerful person in her world, the woman who has given her everything—everything except freedom. Sinbad can feel the heat of her body, the pulse of her inner fire, her strong, sleek body bare but for streaks of ash. The crowd in the room stares, silent.

Odhran, beside Riona on the low dais, drops his head and rubs his eyes. His heavy, fur-lined leathers sit askew on his body and he looks tired. If Sinbad had more time, he'd feel sorry for the man. "Not now," the clan leader pleads, stepping forward.

Maeve ignores him. Whether she even looks at him Sinbad doesn't know, but her words are only for her queen. "I am Celt," she says, taking a measured step forward, then another. "Born to Celt parents in a mud hut, in a village that no longer exists." She turns her head slightly, staring at Lachlan, the queen's captain of the guard, standing just behind and to the left of his monarch. "I am telling you now, I will not marry as you wish. I will never bear Fae children." Her eyes return to her queen, full of the fire at her heart. "So do it. Name me heir. If you dare."

The queen is furious. Sinbad can see it despite her training, her ability to hide what she feels behind that Fae mask of indifference. Her nostrils widen as she struggles to breathe evenly, her mouth hard and sharp as a blade. "Clothe yourself, firestarter," she says, words dropping heavy and hard as lead weights into the silent room. "You know this is not how things are done. We will discuss much upon return to Aven. Not here, and not thus."

"No." Maeve steps forward again. Sinbad remains close at her back. They can't be parted. He doesn't know what her queen might try to do, but he knows that much. "I am not going back there. And here's as good a place as any. Tell me the truth. Either name me heir, as you intended to do from the first, or set me free."

The queen's dark eyes are hard as flint. "A parent does not give in to a child's hysterics, nor a queen to a subject's sedition. I will deal with you when I am ready, and not by giving you exactly what you want."

"You're not my parent!" Her hair ignites, as Sinbad suspected it would. Not just a spark, but a river of fire flows over her shoulders and down her back, beautiful and bright, her inner fire flaring hot and wild. The crowd around them presses back, drawing away from them. Sinbad stands his ground. Maeve has never hurt him, and he doesn't believe she ever would.

"I am more than your parent," Riona says, her chin lifting as she stares down at her firestarter. "I am your queen. The trick you just pulled on my subjects is unacceptable, firestarter. Unforgivable. You must apologize to Odhran, to his clan, and we will discuss the consequences later."

Trick? Sinbad frowns. She didn't do anything to Odhran, to his people. She never would. She can absolutely be violent when necessary, but not toward the innocent, the defenseless. Besides, "She was just with me, majesty," he says, knowing full well that speaking to the queen is not a good idea right now. "She didn't do anything."

The monarch's cold eyes settle on him, angry and disdainful. "I know very well she was with you. The whole palace knows it." One side of her mouth curls in the faintest grimace of disgust.

Maeve's hair calms to a trickle of sparks as confusion overrides her anger. "We didn't do anything! We never would. You know me better than that."

"I thought I did." The queen stares at her firestarter, full of displeasure. "Beg pardon of Odhran and clothe yourself. Now."

This is a direct order from her monarch, but Maeve does neither. She stares at the clan leader, uncomprehending.

Odhran looks tired. "An apology is not necessary," he says, "but next time think, please, before kindling a fire you refuse to douse. I'm sure many people were quite pleased, but others were not. Some were scared. Her majesty and I have been dealing with the fallout for half an hour or so. Since I, ah, returned to duty." The pale skin above his bushy black beard flushes slightly.

Sinbad still has no idea what the man is talking about. He inches closer to Maeve, unmindful of the sparks still shimmering here and there in her lovely curls.

"I wasn't afraid," someone in the crowd mutters. A few scattered chuckles answer the man.

"Nor I," a woman says. "Though some forewarning might be nice next time, firestarter."

Riona's glare silences the laughter. Odhran looks harried. Sinbad feels for him. This is his palace, his clan, but Riona outranks him. Sinbad suspects Maeve does, too, though she's been polite enough to defer to him while under his roof.

No more. She regards the clan chief through a thin veneer of calm brought on by confusion. Inside, she's still very close to boiling over. Sinbad can feel her fire, the way it tenses and pulses, radiating heat, pressing against him and the rest of the assembled crowd. She can't control it, and despite the trouble it causes he never wants her to. Her inner flame is as beautiful as the rest of her. "I didn't do anything," she says, her voice hard as steel. She's not backing down.

Nor should she. They truly didn't do anything. Maeve is making a shameless spectacle of herself, attempting to provoke a very deliberate, very nasty fight, but her quarrel is only with her queen. Not Odhran, and not his clan.

"You damn well did!" Riona insists.

"If not for her majesty I wouldn't entirely have minded the disruption, to be honest," Odhran says, rubbing the back of his neck, his face still pink. "My wife and I may even get another child out of it, so I shouldn't complain."

Another scattering of chuckles greets his words.

"But in front of the queen was beyond the pale, firestarter."

Sinbad is utterly lost now. Yes, they're walking the palace smelling blatantly of sex to the sensitive noses of the Fae, the marks on their bodies leaving no doubt as to what they were just doing. But that has nothing to do with—

Maeve laughs. A low bark of dry amusement leaves her mouth, and her fire flares again. As that sweet warmth caresses him, Sinbad finally understands.

"The whole palace?" he says, blank with shock.

"The whole damn _clan_. And I wouldn't be surprised if some very angry werewolves turned up at my gates, too, demanding an explanation. I was warned when her majesty sent you," Odhran says, glancing at Maeve, "but I thought the effect was limited to those in close proximity—a room, maybe. Not all my people at once."

Sinbad inhales slowly. Odhran doesn't seem terribly upset, but Riona is still spitting mad. Maeve is utterly unrepentant. This...is not something he's ever had to talk his way out of before. "You're saying we accidentally lit off a...debauch...that big?"

"I've been dealing with a crowd of very confused citizens for the last half-hour, as I said." Odhran clears his throat.

"I'm...sorry?" Honestly, he isn't. But Riona wants an apology, and Maeve sure as hell isn't going to give it.

"I'm not," she says flatly. "I didn't mean to do it, so as long as nobody was actually hurt, I'm not sorry. I refuse to apologize for something I can't control." Her glare returns to Riona.

"Sorry or not," the clan leader says, "I would like to suggest that we take this...discussion...into the council chamber. There's no need to do this in public."

A mutter of disappointment flows through the crowd, but relief fills Sinbad at Odhran's suggestion. Maeve has the right to do as she pleases, to fight her queen as Caesar said a Celt ought, but that doesn't mean he likes all these people staring at her—at them both.

"If we must do this now, then by all means, behind closed doors," Riona says firmly. It's perhaps the first time Sinbad has ever agreed so thoroughly with her.

"Why?" Maeve challenges. "Are you ashamed of me?" Her tone is derisive as she taunts her monarch. "I'm not. Sinbad isn't."

How could he be ashamed of her? She's fucking perfect. Beautiful beyond words. Powerful and fearless. But that doesn't mean he wants a thronging audience for this fight. The crowd is being fairly respectful for now, but if someone tries to touch her Sinbad will lose it. She can be a spectacle and taunt her queen with this unacceptably blatant display of sexuality all she likes, but another man's hands on her unclothed skin is intolerable.

"At the moment, I certainly am," Riona says, stepping off the low dais, heading for a set of smaller doors at the back of the room. "And I will argue this no more here. Either come to the council chamber or return to Aven; those are your choices."

Sinbad aches to touch his Maeve, to put his hands on that lovely, creamy skin and feel the living heat of her. It settles him more than anything else in the world. More than his ship, the gentle rocking of a calm sea. More than his brother and Dim-Dim at his side. But in front of her queen, with both women so ready to snap, he doesn't quite dare.

He needn't have worried. He might not dare, but Maeve does. She reaches behind, fumbling for his hand. He gives it gladly; her grip is strong and sure. She's not afraid, so he won't be, either. She squeezes tightly, then releases him, following her queen with measured steps.

Sinbad does the same. He can't leave her. She's insistent that this fight is hers to win, but he's not quite confident enough to leave her alone with her queen. If he's honest, deep down he's terrified that if they separate now he'll never see her again.

"Are you sure you want to keep that one?" Odhran murmurs wearily, falling in step beside him. "She's a beautiful creature, but she's dangerous. Is she really worth all this trouble?"

"Yes." A thousand times over. A million. She's it for him. Sinbad watches with amusement as Lachlan gives Maeve a wide berth when he follows his queen into the council chamber. Good. The captain of the guard ought to fear her. "I'll try not to let her set fire to your council room."

"I don't know if even together we could stop her. I'd best come too, though." That council chamber is clearly the last place Odhran wants to be. "At least she hasn't set fire to anything yet."

Except Sinbad's borrowed clothes. The sheets. The bed. But Odhran doesn't know about that yet, and now is probably not the time to tell him.

Angry voices rise from the open door. Sinbad braces himself as he steps inside, Odhran following with a weary little groan. Sinbad feels for him, but this is part of the price of the rescue. His people were saved by fire; he can't expect to walk away without even a singe.

The doors swing closed behind them, shutting out the peering crowd. Two guards flank them. Riona's dark eyes light on Sinbad as he halts just inside the room. She stands behind a huge trestle table, like a king at a high feast. Maybe it's good a table stands between her and her firestarter. Maeve's hands clench at her sides, her body sooty and bare, a perfect barbarian counterpoint to her queen's stiff, righteous displeasure.

"You," the queen snaps, staring at Sinbad. "You were not invited. And you are not permitted in the royal presence wrapped in a rag."

It's more than Maeve's wearing, but Sinbad opts not to point this out. "Your pardon, majesty," he says, choosing courtesy over hostility. He does not have the same power over this woman that Maeve does. He bows as if he wasn't wrapped in a thin linen drying cloth. "My clothes met with an untimely end, I'm afraid."

"Don't you dare back talk me!" she barks. The woman who crumbled bread for birds, who insisted Sinbad walk beside her despite protocol, is long gone.

"He's not. I burned them," Maeve says, matter-of-fact. "They were in the way, and I was impatient."

The queen's eyes narrow. "This is one of the bigger tantrums you've thrown, but it's still a tantrum. You think you can throw a fit and get what you want? The world doesn't work that way, my girl, and it's time you learned. Everyone else may be afraid of you, but I am not." The queen looks levelly at Maeve. Maeve stares back, silently daring her to act.

The queen snaps her fingers. The guards at the doors step forward. Not toward Maeve, but toward Sinbad.

He tenses for this fight, wishing to all the gods for his saber—or at least his clothes. He's at a slight disadvantage and he's not so comfortable fighting naked. Sharp swords so near his unprotected cock make him nervous.

He needn't have worried. Maeve stares down her queen but speaks to the guards. "Touch him and die. It will not be a pretty corpse returned to your mother."

The guards freeze. Sinbad can see the indecision plainly in their faces, their unmoving bodies. They don't know which woman to obey, which woman to fear more.

"Stop this." Odhran lumbers forward and motions his men back with a brusque wave of his burly arm. "There must be a way to settle this dispute without putting my people at risk. Or my house." He glances at Maeve out of the corner of his eye.

"There is no dispute." Riona's expressionless Fae mask is gone, replaced with cold fury. "Mine she has been nearly all her life, and mine she shall stay."

"I'm not yours!" Maeve's fierce bellow is hot and insistent. "Celts belong to no one but themselves!"

"Demons take you hot-blooded Celts!" Riona fires back. "You may have been born to human parents, as you are so determined to point out, but you were raised by me and mine. You are what I decide you are."

"I'm not!" Tiny sparks light once more in Maeve's hair, slithering down the fire-bright strands like a flame along a fuse. They sizzle and drip, a warning as clear as the surge of her inner fire, hot and angry. Sinbad is sure the crowd just outside the doors can feel that flame as it burns bigger, fueled by her fury. "I am not Fae, and I am not your heir! I refuse!"

"Control yourself!" Riona demands. "Your earlier stunt was unacceptable, and I will not have it repeated before me."

Sinbad really hopes Maeve doesn't care to try. He's very unsure he could perform in front of an audience. "You did your best, majesty," he says instead, "I've no doubt. But you can't turn a tiger into a housecat, and tigers don't make good pets."

"My mages certainly can turn a tiger into anything I please," Riona says, "so watch your tongue. Unless you would like a personal demonstration."

No, Sinbad would very much not like that. He doesn't want to spend the rest of his days chasing vermin and licking himself. He swallows hard and wishes fervently for Dim-Dim. Not just for his magical skills, should they become necessary, but for his calm as well, his ability to diffuse tension. Maeve is about to explode, her queen right behind her, and if that happens Odhran really will have something to worry about.

"If you threaten him again, you will not like the consequences." Maeve takes a single step toward the table and her queen. It's a very clear warning.

"You are out of line, firestarter." Her monarch's eyes are coldly angry. "Far, far out of line."

"Good. I should never have been in line in the first place. The line of succession, I mean. I am not suited to rule, and I refuse the responsibility."

"That's not what I mean," Riona says, neatly deflecting Maeve's argument. "Toying with my subjects as you did was unacceptable. Threatening your queen is unacceptable. Even for you."

"If it was so unacceptable, dismiss me from service. Let me go."

"Why would I give you what you want, after all this?" Riona demands.

"Because you don't have a choice," Maeve says.

"I do. A queen always has a choice. You are my subject. My firestarter. You will be my heir if you can learn to curb that temper and control yourself."

Maeve's hair explodes into flame. The guards jump back. Sinbad isn't afraid, but he feels for them. Maeve is furious, her body unconsciously shifting into a fighting stance. "I'm as controlled as I will ever be," she says, shaking with the effort of curbing her fire. "What sort of response did you think you'd get? Joy?" She snorts. "You're smarter than that. That's why you didn't tell me, isn't it? You were afraid."

Riona slams a delicate white palm on the table, the biggest show of emotion Sinbad has seen from her. "I am not afraid of you, girl, and I never will be. Do not mistake my affection for weakness."

Sinbad never would. He has no doubt she loves her firestarter in her own way, but this fight isn't about love. It's about power. Riona needs Maeve. Maeve doesn't need Riona. And the queen has no idea how to handle that.

"Affection? You have none," Maeve accuses, which isn't true, and she herself would likely admit it were she not so furious.

"My affection kept you alive when you were young, and keeps you alive now," the queen says. Her chin lowers as she stares at her firestarter. "My affection brought you everything you have. You are testing it severely, as is that misbegotten sailor. I warned him, and I am warning you now. Do not challenge me. You will not like the consequences."

"He's not your subject, so he's no concern of yours," Maeve says, ignoring the warning. "And he's been honest with me from the beginning—something you failed to do. How dare you? How _dare_ you think you could keep something so vital from me?" The deep hurt underlying her anger bleeds through, and Sinbad sees a flash of unshed tears in her eyes, tears she will never let fall. Not in front of her queen. "I know why you did—because you knew I wouldn't want the crown. Would never accept it. When did you plan to tell me?" she demands. "In your will? After you were buried?"

"My decisions are not for you to question!" Riona insists. She rounds on Sinbad. "All private conversation with the monarch is just that—private. You had no right to divulge it."

"I made no such vow, and never would." He stares at the coldly furious queen, ice to her firestarter's flame. He hadn't wanted to tell Maeve. He _didn't_ tell her, strictly speaking. Their bond is deeper than words. He regrets how she found out, but he doesn't regret that she did. She needed to know what her queen planned.

"Get that man out of my sight," Riona growls. "Throw him in the dungeon while I deal with my firestarter."

"We don't have a dungeon," Odhran says, resigned. "We've never needed one. And this is the chamber we use as a drunk pen on feast nights, so he's already as close to locked up as you're going to get."

"Majesty." A throat clears. Relief floods Sinbad. He doesn't quite dare turn his head, but he knows that voice.

"This is a private matter between my firestarter and myself," Riona says, bristling as Dim-Dim calmly paces forward. "It doesn't concern you, sorcerer."

"In fact it does, I'm afraid, majesty," he says, bowing low. "The boy is mine."

"Your son?" Riona eyes the little man doubtfully.

"As good as." Dim-Dim removes the silvery cape draped over his shoulders. "Calm yourself, my dear," he says, gentle voice soothing as he turns to Maeve. "This sort of fighting can only ever beget resentment and retribution."

But Maeve is in no mood to be placated. "I am Celt," she says firmly, staring at Riona. Her fist tightens. "This is how we solve problems."

"And that is one very good reason why few Celts live to be my age. Come, child. There are other ways to get your point across."

"I am fire," she insists implacably, still refusing to look at him. "Fire does not bend, you said so yourself."

"No," he agrees. "Fire is not malleable. It does not bend. But it does adapt. It snakes through root systems and erupts miles from its source. It flies, sparks on the wind. It survives, tiny but living, in the heart of banked coals, until new fuel comes to sustain it."

Finally, slowly, she moves. Her head turns, hair a waterfall of crackling flame, and looks at the little old man. "I won't leave him."

"I would never ask you to," Dim-Dim assures her. He offers the cape, holding the soft silver fabric aloft with both hands.

"What can a poor sailor give you that I could not?" Riona demands, bristling at Maeve's insistence.

"Freedom!" Maeve's attention snaps back to her ruler and her inner fire flares once more. "Honesty. Love. Take your pick," she snarls. Sinbad's heart sinks. If Dim-Dim can't calm her, no one can.

"She has a point, majesty," Dim-Dim says softly.

"Monarchs are not permitted freedom. I myself have never known it."

"I'm not a monarch!" Maeve growls. She's a wild creature about to turn on her handler. "I'm Celt! I was born in a mud hut and nothing you say, nothing you do, can change that!"

"Change it, no. But I have made it all but irrelevant."

"Not. To. Me." The words force their way out through clenched teeth.

"Breathe, child," Dim-Dim says. "Bank the flame for now. You'll find this discussion easier, I promise."

Sinbad is doubtful, but he's wise enough to keep his mouth shut. He doesn't know that there's any room for compromise between the two women, the monarch and her acolyte, no longer a child and unwilling to play the part any longer.

"I'm fire," Maeve says implacably.

"_Be_ fire," Dim-Dim urges. "Don't deny that part of you. But be human, too. Canny. Logical. You are both in one. You can inhabit both at the same time, just as you are human and Fae at the same time."

"I'm not!" She rounds on the little sorcerer, outraged.

"You are," he says gently, undaunted by her fury, both literal and figurative flames crackling around her. "You were made by humans, borne by a human, but shaped by your environment. Your queen cannot remove the Celt from you, but by the same token you cannot remove the Fae. And that's a good thing, though you don't believe me now."

"I won't believe you ever."

"We'll see." He shakes the cape in his hands gently. "Come, my dear. Calm your hair, and let's see if we can salvage something of this."

To Sinbad's shock, she does. The flames in her hair die down, slowly receding back into her body, part of the inner fire at her heart. She considers the cape for a long moment before stepping forward, allowing Dim-Dim to reach up and place it gently around her shoulders.

"There," the old sorcerer says, beaming at her as she wraps the soft material around herself. "You are multilingual, yes?"

She nods wordlessly.

"You can learn to switch between the parts of yourself as easily and naturally as you switch tongues. It takes time, practice, and diligence, but it is possible. It's futile to try to burn away that which you no longer wish to be, and unnecessary besides. You can be all things, all your disparate parts, as occasion calls."

Big brown eyes watch him, wary but curious, her fire, for the moment, dampened. "I don't know how."

The old man smiles. She's head-and-shoulders taller than him, but he reaches up and touches her cheek fondly. "I will teach you."

It's an oddly tender moment. Sinbad feels Maeve's fire flicker. She's been unsure of his mentor from the first, but he can feel it now as she accepts the old man fully—his wisdom, and his inherent goodness. By all rights she should be wary, considering the mess with Riona, but for whatever reason, she isn't. And he's beyond grateful for it.

Dim-Dim steps back and clears his throat. "By your leave, majesty—this is a council chamber. Let's sit and see if we can come to some agreement."

"Sit, if you will," Riona says, the icy, impassive mask of the Fae firmly in place once more. "But I am not leaving this mountain without my firestarter."

"We'll see," Dim-Dim says, just as gently as he said it to Maeve a moment before.

"Odhran, you stay," the queen says, drawing up her own chair instead of waiting for Lachlan to hold it for her. "I want a witness."

"As you wish," the big man says, sounding weary. He drops into a chair at her side.

One corner of Sinbad's mouth flickers in amusement when he notices that the queen does not give Lachlan permission to sit. The captain of the guard stands, silent and unhappy, behind and to her left. That the man would be a likely candidate for Maeve's hand, yet the queen doesn't care for his input in this debate, tells Sinbad all he needs to know about Lachlan's role in the hypothetical succession.

A hypothetical succession that will never happen if Sinbad has anything to say about it. He draws a chair close to Maeve's as she settles across the table from her queen, Dim-Dim on her other side.

"You are not necessary," Riona says, staring him down. "Just because Odhran has no dungeon to drop you in doesn't mean you are welcome here."

"He's necessary to me." Maeve is as immovable as her monarch.

"And me, I'm afraid, your majesty," Dim-Dim says from Maeve's other side. "Despite his looks, he's quite intelligent."

"A wagon achieves movement with four wheels," Riona objects. "We do not need a fifth."

"And a chariot achieves it with two, but in this case leaving you alone with your firestarter would be disastrous for all involved. I'm afraid I must insist on my boy. You may invite your captain of the guard, if you wish to even the numbers."

Irritated but retaining that icy veneer, Riona gestures impatiently for Lachlan to sit. He does, as silently angry as his queen.

"I wish to have done with this, not drag it out," Riona says. "The issue is simple—a binding legal matter. My firestarter belongs to me. She swore an oath. That cannot be undone."

Maeve draws breath to snarl at her queen but Dim-Dim touches her hand lightly as it rests, tightly clenched, on the top of the table. "In fact it can, majesty. You can release her, and to my mind you should. No good has ever befallen a kingdom where the monarch and the heir are at odds."

"No good has ever befallen a kingdom where the monarch allows herself to be circumscribed by a subject."

"I don't believe that is what either Maeve or Sinbad intends," Dim-Dim says.

"It amounts to the same thing, whether they intend it or not. The final say rests with me, not with her. To claim otherwise is a direct challenge to my authority."

"I'm not challenging your authority," Maeve says tightly. "I don't want it. Not your power, or your kingdom. If I really wanted to challenge you, I'd leave. Now. Without seeking permission."

"You know my soldiers would follow."

"The world is wide," Maeve says, her inner fire flaring once more. "Bigger than even you can control."

Sinbad touches her gently, her skin hot through the soft material of Dim-Dim's cape. He feels out of his depth. He's not really the type to sit at a negotiating table, especially not while clad only in a scrap of linen. But he's not leaving her. He has every faith in her, and in Dim-Dim, but he can't leave. The fear of losing her is still very much with him, the fear that if he walks away he'll never see her again.

"You swore a vow," Riona insists. "An oath of fealty and service. I do not release you. Don't make me say it again."

"I was sixteen! Two years too young, and I had no idea what I was vowing! You never said anything about becoming your heir!"

Riona looks at her steadily. "Would you be content to stay were you not named heir?"

Maeve breathes softly beside him. "No," she admits.

"Then it doesn't matter what I intend to do with you, or when I intended to tell you."

Except it does. Even at sixteen, Sinbad doubts Maeve would have agreed to become Riona's heir. Her secret weapon, yes—a deadly power disguised as a beautiful lady of the court, a special favorite of a doting queen. But not a princess. Never that. The gilded cage Maeve occupies now is a large one and she's let out from time to time, as when she was sent here. By contrast, the cage Riona wishes to put her in as heir and later ruler is smaller by far. Too small for the wild force that she is. Too small for her fire, and her heart.

"I swore faith and truth," Maeve says, slamming her palm down on the table, "and I have never once faltered. You swore, too, when you accepted my oath. To honor and protect me. To reward valor with honor, service with service. I have the right to hold you to your oath, as well. Sinbad and I just saved countless lives. Your subjects, your kingdom, possibly the entire world. _All_ of us. And in saving the lives of the lowland humans, Odhran and Sorcha giving them shelter and aid, we've opened a door on the possibility—just the possibility—of a new beginning. Reconciliation. That story is not mine to write; it's theirs. And yours. For me, do as you vowed." She inhales deeply. Her eyes glow with conviction, and in this moment Sinbad sees exactly what Riona must see—a woman who would have made a formidable queen. And a woman who wants nothing more than to be set free. "Reward our valor with honor. Our service with service. As you vowed. Let me go."

On Maeve's other side, Sinbad can see Dim-Dim's beaming face, his pride in his new student shining bright. In this moment, Sinbad has absolute faith that his mentor was right: Maeve will be able to learn how to reconcile all the disparate parts of herself and switch between them when necessary. That beautiful fire will never die, but it doesn't have to be an inferno all the time.

But only if Riona will let her go.

The queen's impassive mask cracks. Slowly, slowly, the beautiful woman shakes her head. "I can't. I'm sorry, child. Truly. But I can't." She's always looked ageless to Sinbad, but as the schooled, emotionless facade drops away he sees what decades of rule, of worry and responsibility, have done to her. It's no magical transformation—she doesn't suddenly sprout wrinkles like a gnarled old tree. But her eyes shine dully, old and weary. "You just stated yourself the reason I can't let you go. Who else could have stopped those creatures, freed my people? What about the next time? The time after that?"

And, though he knows the queen loathes him and would absolutely take his head if she thought it would get her her firestarter back, Sinbad can't help but feel sorry for her. She's lived her whole life with the burden Maeve now rejects, and she never had a choice. She didn't want it, either. She gave up the chance to marry and bear her own heirs to protect her niece's right to the crown, preventing the threat of a civil war over the throne. But when that niece died childless, she was left with nothing. No close relatives and no one she felt she could entrust her people to. Maeve must have seemed the answer to all her prayers, a canny, capable, powerful girl in need of guidance, one with the strength to rule such a vast, disjointed kingdom. He regrets that he's causing this strife, but he can't give Maeve up any more than her queen can.

And maybe he doesn't have to.

"What if we can compromise?" he says slowly, unsure if speaking at all is wise. Riona doesn't like him and may not listen to anything he says. But he can't walk away from this mountain alone. "What if we vow—both of us—that if another emergency occurs, we'll come to your aid? Just as Maeve would have anyway, if she stayed with you. With your magic, distance is no real barrier."

Maeve is watching him with those gorgeous, honey-dark eyes. Maybe he should have asked her first, but he honestly doesn't know what else to do. He can't give her up, and he can't let her break her oath.

"No," Riona says. At least she's speaking to him instead of demanding that he be placed in Odhran's nonexistent dungeon. "I need my heir."

"You have any number of capable subjects," Maeve says. "Lachlan would gladly accept the challenge."

Riona discounts this without even looking at the man at her side. "He hasn't your strength. No one does."

"Give him help, then. Not just advisors, but...councilors. Or senators, as they had long ago in Rome. A way to share out both the power and the burden of it," Sinbad says.

"That would be chaos. And it did not end well for Rome."

"Perhaps not as chaotic as you might think," Dim-Dim says gently. "It's not a bad idea. You know what they say about absolute power."

Riona's eyes darken. "I am incorruptible."

"I wouldn't dream of suggesting otherwise. But you can't guarantee the same of those who come after you. You can try to pick the best heir, but you can't foresee their choice. Or the choice after that." Dim-Dim smiles gently. "Let the girl go, majesty. If you force her to leave him, she'll never forgive you. She'll either break her oath or serve you resentfully and with caprice. Either way, you won't win. Let her go and she will continue to protect your people when the need arises—faith and truth, just as she vowed."

"It's that or nothing. I'm going, either way," Maeve says evenly. Her inner fire burns strong and bright. She's unafraid and unmoving, refusing to back down. Whether this is part of her Celt heritage or something she learned at Riona's knee doesn't really matter. It's part of her, regardless.

The queen stares at her firestarter, still angry but also tired. She knows she's caught. Forcing Maeve to break her oath might be the better choice for Riona's pride but it isn't the better choice for her kingdom, and for Riona the kingdom comes first. It will always come first. She breathes silently, deep breaths that fill her chest, her shoulders rising ever so slightly with each inhalation.

"You will come when I call," she says, tone flat. "All of you. With all haste."

"So long as you only call in dire need," Maeve says. "I won't be summoned incessantly without necessity."

Riona inclines her head.

Maeve turns. Her eyes find Sinbad's, tawny-sweet, full of questions. He's served many a ruler before but never sworn an oath to any. He doesn't want to—this commitment will be for life. But he'll do anything to keep this woman. And, strange as it may sound, he trusts Riona. He doesn't like her, but he trusts her. All she wants is to protect her people and, really, what else is a monarch for? He nods slowly at Maeve's searching gaze.

"I think," she says, taking his hand as she turns to her queen, "that we have a deal."

* * *

As the door of the council chamber shuts firmly behind them, Sinbad feels like weeping. Or shouting. Mostly he feels like taking his girl back to bed and not resurfacing for at least a week. He can't handle another day like today, the fear, the absolute certainty that he would lose her forever. He wraps his arms around her as she stands, triumphant and radiant, draped only in Dim-Dim's cape, skin still streaked with soot. She's his now. For good.

She grips him back, arms hard on his shoulders, her delicious warmth bleeding through him. "Not bad, sailor," she says, speaking softly into the side of his throat. Her voice shakes; he pretends not to notice. "I knew you were tough. I never knew you were smart, too."

"It's been known to happen from time to time." He kisses her sooty forehead. "Mine now, _l__eannán._ For real this time."

She nods wordlessly. No other reply is necessary.

Beside them, Odhran stretches tense, weary muscles. "Hospitality is a sacred trust," he says in his gruff voice, "and I would never breach it. But I would diplomatically suggest that you and your crew might like to depart sooner rather than later. I have never known Riona to break an agreement, but I've also never seen her so angry."

She has every right to be angry. Sinbad has stolen her greatest treasure. He takes the clan chief's suggestion without offense. "It's not the first time we've had to duck out of a party early, and it won't be the last. But I, uh, need my clothes first."

Odhran laughs. It's a full-torso belly laugh, deep and roaring. It releases some of the tension in Sinbad, too, and he laughs along when the clan chief pounds his bare back. "Let's go rescue your clothes from the laundresses, then, and gather your men. I'll send you down the mountain with a key so you don't have to brave the snow."

"Not me," Maeve says, gently disentangling herself from Sinbad's arm. His hand reflexively clamps down, seeking to keep her close. What does she mean, not her? He's not letting her out of his sight. Not until they're on board the Nomad, wind in their sails. Possibly not until they reach Constantinople. Or Baghdad. Or maybe never again.

"Yes, you," he says, managing to catch a handful of silvery material, though not the girl inside it. "I'm marrying you as soon as possible."

She eyes him warily. "Celts don't marry."

"My people do. So do the Fae."

Odhran roars with laughter once more. "He's got you there, firestarter."

Maeve makes a face. "So convince me. I may be open to negotiation." She eyes him. "Although the last time we made a deal, I never got what I was promised."

She will. He swears it. Just as soon as they're safe. "The sooner we get going, the sooner you'll get what you want."

She kisses his mouth lightly. "I need to take my trunk back to Aven and pick up what I'm bringing with me. Don't worry. Sorcha has a key; she'll help me. I'll meet you at your ship before sunset."

Sinbad doesn't like this idea. Not at all. He trusts Maeve and he trusts Sorcha, but he's not ready to just let her go like that. Especially not to Aven, which is exactly where her queen wants her.

But he can't forbid her. This isn't the time for a fight, and that's what it will turn into if he tries. So, as reluctant as he is to leave her, he kisses her forehead, her mouth, and makes himself let go. "Before sunset."

"Before sunset. I promise." She turns and strides swiftly down the corridor, still clad only in Dim-Dim's cape.

"Come on," Odhran says, waving Sinbad and Dim-Dim down the hallway. "Let's gather your men and get you safely on your way."

* * *

Sinbad has never been gladder to swing himself aboard the Nomad. He inhales deeply the smell of wood and water, rope and tar and canvas, swearing he'll never leave it for so long again. They're only in a river, not the sea, but he doesn't care. Cold fresh water or warm salt, he's just glad to feel the gentle bob of waves beneath him once more. He runs his palm along the railing as his men finish loading the supplies the grateful people of Ralgorōd pressed on them. With a hold full of food, fresh water beneath them, they won't have to stop until they reach the Black Sea. Maybe not even then.

Clouds swallow the sky, even here at the base of the mountain, and he wished they didn't. He wants to see the sun, feel its warmth on his skin. He's been up north for far too long. He won't grumble like Doubar does about the cold, but he misses his world, too. The heat, the light. He will never regret this trip, considering what it brought him. But he's ready to go home.

Just as soon as he has his girl back.

He breathes the wind, searching for her smoke-sweet scent. She's like the sun. The touch of her skin kept him warm while on the mountain, the memory of her light kept him alive while under it. Now she's his for good, for keeps, and he knows that makes him the luckiest bastard alive. Lachlan couldn't keep her. Neither could her queen. The werewolves wanted to know if he felt he was deserving of her love, her loyalty. He knows he's not, but he's going to do everything in his power to be.

"That's the last of it, little brother," Doubar says, pounding his back as he draws up beside him. The slap twinges the healing wounds in his gut, but he refuses to complain. He has his brother. Dim-Dim. His men, his ship, his life. He's on the mend and Maeve will soon be here with him. What more could he ask for?

"These people were generous," he says, thinking not only of the hold full of food but the bounty in gold as well.

"We did what they asked and more. Considering what we saved them from, and the opportunity for a new beginning with their neighbors up the mountain, I'd say they got their money's worth."

Sinbad chuckles as he watches the sails unfurl. Sunset is closing in. He aches for it—to have Maeve close beside him once more, feel the flare of her fire when he touches her skin. Being apart is beyond unsettling. He needs her back so they can put this chapter of their lives behind them and start afresh—together.

"I'm sorry, by the way," he says, glancing sideways at his brother. "For that, ah, disturbance today. We didn't mean to do it."

Doubar laughs loudly. "Don't fret, brother. Dim-Dim was with us and managed to shield us." He snorts. "Well, mostly. Rolly's daughter may have a little brother before too long. And Firouz was off somewhere and got pulled in. Ask him sometime if he still disbelieves in fairies. The color he turns trying to answer—I don't think it has a name."

Sinbad can't help laughing. Rolly and his wife having another child very soon was inevitable, so he refuses to take any blame for it. And Firouz could use a little loosening up, so as long as there are no hard feelings he bears no guilt.

"I do have to ask...is that going to be a regular occurrence?" Doubar looks at him. "That's my little sister now, and I don't want things getting awkward."

"Have peace," Dim-Dim says, chuckling as he steps toward them, holding a round of dark rye bread. Sinbad ordinarily does not like rye, but right now he'll eat anything that isn't barley. "What happened today was triggered by an unusual set of events. It won't likely continue to happen, so long as the circumstances are not repeated."

Sinbad rubs the back of his neck. "Don't fuck her, or make her mad, when she's inside my head. Don't worry, we learned that lesson."

"Inside your head?" Doubar frowns. "I know she's powerful, but I didn't know she could read minds. I'm not so sure I like that."

"She can't," Sinbad assures him. "Just mine. And only, as Dim-Dim said, during certain...circumstances." He still isn't sure how she manages to do it, but he's done questioning anything about her magic anymore. It does as it pleases, as her queen said. It's part of her, like those perfect lips, those bright red curls. She can't help it, and he never wants her to.

"Very little has been written about fire-children, and as I said before, I am no expert. But I believe she can learn control. It's a question of working with her magic, not against it. I think this is where her previous training failed. Fire just can't be tamed the way common magical talent can."

"Will you stay?" Sinbad asks, watching his mentor carefully. "Will you teach her?"

"Of a certainty. I will do what I can. A trip to Basra, to consult with Cairpra, would not go amiss, either."

"Basra it is." Sinbad is happy to go wherever they need to go, and he suspects Maeve and Cairpra will get along well. Quarters will be tight with Dim-Dim, Tetsu, and Maeve aboard in addition to his crew, but it shouldn't be too bad. Maeve will be staying with him, his captain's cabin now hers as well. They've never had a woman aboard as more than a temporary passenger and it will take some getting used to, but despite her dislike of water he's confident she'll love sailing once she gets the hang of it.

"You really ought to warn the girl," Doubar says as the afternoon deepens toward sunset. "If you haven't already. Does she know what it actually means to sail with you?"

"You mean that anything can happen?" And usually does. "She's smart. I think she'll have figured that out by now."

"Even so. It's only polite to warn her about something like Rumina's grudge. Plunkett's grudge. Scratch's grudge…" He ticks them off on his meaty fingers.

"Okay, I get it. I'll warn her. But it won't scare her off." If anything, hearing about the many enemies he's made over the years will only fuel her desire to join him.

"And one more thing. Even if you're not sparking off full-blown orgies, try to keep the noise down? I realize I'll be getting nieces and nephews before long, but I don't need to hear it happening."

That's something Sinbad can't and won't promise. "I wonder if Firouz can come up with something to dampen sound?"

"At the very least some insulation between the walls," Doubar agrees. He looks up at the overcast sky. There will be no glorious sunset, but an orange cast to the clouds heralds the arrival of dusk.

Sinbad knows what the big man is thinking without words. Maeve said she would be here by sunset. Time is slipping away, sand through the hourglass, and she isn't here. He refused to let himself worry earlier, but the anxiety in his gut ratchets higher with each passing minute. He needs her. More than he's ever needed anyone in his life.

"That girl adores you," Doubar says softly, attempting to be reassuring. "She won't run. I doubt she runs from anything."

Women run all the time, but usually from arranged marriages, not men they love. And Sinbad knows she loves him. With the bond they share, she couldn't hide it even if she wanted to. So if she's not here, something must be wrong. Sunset's closing in fast. Despite his insistence that he won't worry, his heart hasn't beat in proper rhythm since he let her go. He feels like he can't get a good breath. What if her queen overpowered her somehow? Forced her to stay? Took away her key, perhaps? She could even now be stuck a world away, on the western edge of the continent, unable to make her way back to him.

If that's the case, he vows, he'll find her. He won't rest until he does. He'll climb this mountain again and search every inch of Odhran's clan. He'll sail west, as fast as the Nomad can fly, to make his way to Aven and get her back. He wants to trust Riona, especially since he's vowed to come to her aid should she call, but he knows how angry she is and how much she did not want to release her firestarter. Maeve would never just abandon him, so what is he to think?

"She said she was fetching her things, didn't she?" Doubar leans cautiously against the ship's railing. The Nomad is sturdy, but he's taken a tumble before. "Typical girl." He laughs. "You did warn her that there's precious little room for baubles, didn't you?"

Sinbad brushes his brother's attempt at teasing reassurance aside. "She's not like that." Doubar knows she's not like that. Sinbad doesn't know what was so important in Aven that she had to use a key to go get it, but he knows she won't appear with a flock of servants carting loads of junk. She's not that kind of girl. Yes, she's used to luxuries he'll never be able to give her, but she doesn't need them. Given the choice, she doesn't want them. He's seen her gowned in velvet in a gleaming palace, and clad in charred leather on the side of a mountain. She was far happier filthy and free; even Doubar knows it.

"Don't fret." Dim-Dim offers hunks of his pungent rye loaf around. Sinbad shakes his head. He's not hungry, and he won't be hungry until Maeve is back with him where she belongs. "She said she'll be here, she'll be here." Dim-Dim bites into the dark bread and stretches his arms. "These old joints much prefer the lower altitude off the mountain."

"You shouldn't have gone up it in the first place," Sinbad says, but there's no rancor in his voice and everyone knows he means none of it. He and Maeve would both probably have died on that mountain without the old man, and even if they didn't, he doubts they would have achieved any sort of deal with the Fae queen without him.

"My joints don't care, but the rest of me is glad to be off that mountain," Doubar agrees. "And it will be gladder to be rid of this confounded cold."

Sinbad can't argue with his brother. The temperature at the river isn't exactly warm, but it's warmer than it was on the mountain. There's no snow, which is a blessing. He's grateful, and grateful that he'll soon be sailing south again. He's not a cold-weather man any more than Doubar is.

Tetsu emerges from below deck, black eyes calm as he nods at Sinbad. They're taking him as far as Constantinople, where he'll likely change ships, ready for whatever new adventure the wind brings him. Sinbad wishes him well. He's sure they'll meet again soon.

The piercing cry of a hawk sounds from above. Sinbad looks up, surprised to see a bird drop swiftly to alight on the yardarm. He frowns.

"Maybe he wants to come with us," Doubar says, chuckling. "I'd leave this accursed weather too, were I him."

The bird ruffles its feathers and settles. Sinbad doubts it will stay once they start moving. Which they can't until he knows one way or another what's happened to Maeve. Whether he'll have her back at his side, where she belongs, or if he has to cross the world to rescue her. He'll do it. She climbed a mountain on foot to rescue him. Faced down werewolves and demons, and saved his crew besides. He'd owe her that much even if he didn't love her.

Which he does. More than anything in this world. She's it for him. He was willing to give up the sea for her, willing to give up everything he has. Luckily, she'd never ask him to.

"Oh, good, Dermott found you."

_Maeve._ He whirls, relief crashing through him. She's here. She's fine. He reaches instinctively for a line to toss her, and the image that greets his eyes stops his movements. His mouth drops open.

"What?" She stands on the dock, nearly level with him, just across the railing. She glances down at herself, then back up. "My leathers got burnt up, remember?"

Yeah, he remembers, and he's honestly not sure what he expected her to don instead, but this...isn't it.

She laughs at his expression. "Permission to come aboard, captain? You're the one who told me to wear skirts like other women, if I recall."

His hand numbly tosses her the line. "Those aren't skirts like other women."

"Are so. Celt women." She grabs the rope and swings herself effortlessly aboard. Maybe teaching her to sail won't be so difficult after all.

The boots on her feet are scuffed and worn to hell, an old pair kept for emergencies, and he clearly sees the hilt of a familiar knife strapped to the inside of one. She's an arm's length away, so close he can feel the warmth of her skin, the heat of her inner fire, and fuck, she's gorgeous. But he maybe kind of wants to take back his comment about skirts. Especially if she's going to be around other people. Other men. His crew are one thing, but anyone else. She's dressed in thin, fine white linen, voluminous sleeves clasped close to her biceps and forearms with thin bands of embroidery. The neckline isn't so much a neckline as...well, a chestline, dipping down between her breasts, giving him an enticing eyeful of firm, creamy flesh. The skirt rides high on her thighs, baring nearly all of her slim, muscled legs. A soft brown leather overskirt covers the fine linen, cinched tight at the waist, keeping her from looking like a dewy nymph. She's still all warrior...just a sexier one than she was even in tight leather trousers. The hilt of a sword is visible over her shoulder, blade strapped firmly to her back.

And he can't stop himself. Relief fills him as he feels the heat of her sweet fire once more. He takes a step forward and captures her mouth firmly with his, arms snapping tight around her waist, pinning her hard against him. The wounds in his gut twinge, and he doesn't care. The hot-sweet taste of her tongue, smoke and honey, fills him. Nothing else matters.

Her arms slip around his shoulders, holding him as tightly as he holds her. She kisses him back, thoroughly unashamed as Doubar and Rongar laugh, even Tetsu joining in.

"Boys," Dim-Dim says, but there's no remonstrance in his tone. Sinbad doesn't care. Let them laugh. He has everything in the world right here.

When she finally pulls back enough to breathe, those honey-dark eyes gleam wickedly. "How long until you take me downstairs?"

Not long if she keeps looking at him like that. He nips her lip, the first part of her he fell in love with. "I was afraid you'd been kidnapped by your queen. Odhran might not have a dungeon but I'm sure she does."

"Never. I'm more than a match for her captain of the guard." Maeve smiles wickedly.

She definitely is. Sinbad allows himself a twinge of pity for the iceman—one final thought before he dismisses the man from his mind forever. The guy had no idea how far out of his league he was aiming. He may become king after all, if Riona decides, but he'll never be the sort of monarch Maeve could have been.

"I'm sorry I took so long," she says, her palm hot on his cheek. She kisses him again, hot and sweet. So beautiful. Now his for good. Convincing her to marry him might take some time, but she loves him. And he's never letting her go again. "Dermott was being a pain."

"Dermott?"

She nods up at the mast. "My boy. I told you I had to go back to Aven to get my things."

"I didn't realize your things included a pet." He steps back, reluctantly letting her out of his arms so he can look at her again. She has a small pouch and a leather falconer's gauntlet on her belt, sword strapped to her back, but nothing else. No trunks, no sacks. Apparently she travels light, even when she's not climbing mountains.

"He's yours?" Doubar stares up at the little brown hawk doubtfully. "We've never had a pet aboard."

She laughs. "I don't like dogs and I knew I couldn't bring a horse," she says, "but Dermott doesn't take up much room and he looks after himself."

"He's trained to fight, isn't he?" Sinbad asks, already knowing the answer. "Not just hunt?"

"Aye," she says proudly. "He's a good boy." The bird on the yardarm ruffles his feathers, as if he knows his mistress is talking about him.

Why is Sinbad not surprised that her pet is a dangerous beast? "That's it?" he says, searching her eyes. "No more surprises? No man-eating tiger in tow? No evil uncle hell-bent on your destruction?"

"Nope." Her arms slip around his shoulders. He holds her close, the warmth of her fire sinking into his skin, tingling deliciously. Fuck, she's beautiful like this. The excitement in her eyes. She's as ready for this new adventure as he is. "What you see is what you get, sailor. No tiger, no evil uncle. No family at all."

"No family before," he corrects. "Now you have me—and more brothers than you'll know what to do with." She'll brawl with them, most likely. That's what brothers do, after all, and she _is_ a Celt.

Her smile is bright as the southern sun. "You already know perfectly well what you're getting into. I have a lot of magic I'm terrible at controlling. My queen is angry as hell at me. And I can't swim."

"A situation we'll rectify as soon as we reach water warm enough," Sinbad vows. The temperature of the water means nothing to her, but it does to him.

She groans, rolling her head back on her supple neck. "Can't we skip that part?"

"No.." He's uncompromising on this. The water has taken too much from him already and he will not let it take her, too. "Absolutely not. I run a casual ship but this isn't an area where we can compromise."

"I hate water."

Yes, he's well aware, though it is a little funny that she's standing on the deck of a ship as she says so. "I know you do. But I will not lose you that way. I refuse."

"Fire and water are inimical," she argues.

Usually. But his soul belongs to the sea, his heart to her, and somehow he manages. "You went into a frozen lake to save me. You like to bathe. Learning to swim won't kill you."

"I don't _like_ to bathe. It's just necessary living with the Fae. And I'm a terrible student."

Her grumbling protests actually delight him; he wonders if she knows. Because she's here, standing so close he can put his hands on her if he likes, bickering with him without rancor. He loves it. And he suspects she's actually a very good student, provided she has the right motivation. "The faster you learn, the sooner you can be done with it."

She grumbles but offers no further actual protests, and he doesn't really care if she wants to grouse as long as she learns. He doesn't like letting anyone aboard his ship who can't swim, and that goes double for her. Their first real fight was about this very subject and his feelings haven't changed. He lost Leah as a child and it changed him forever. He will not survive the loss of this woman.

"You're gonna owe me way more than a massage if you expect me to willingly get in that river."

"The river's too cold for lessons. Not for you, I know, but for me. We'll head for warmer seas first." He doesn't like the necessity of this, but neither does he have a choice.

"If I can be on your ship for a trip down the river without drowning, why do I have to learn at all?"

"I can't guarantee you _can_ make it down the river without drowning." He eyes her cautiously. "Would you consider staying below deck until we reach warmer water?"

Her dark eyes flare with fire and she tosses her hair behind her shoulders. "Like some concubine? I don't fucking think so."

"Well, the other alternative's being leashed to the mast."

Did he say there was fire in her eyes before? He was wrong. Now there is. And in her hair, too. Sparks sizzle along those pretty curls, beautiful and dangerous. "You absolutely will not _leash _me!"

"I just want to keep you safe." That's all he ever wants. He knows protecting her from everything is a fool's errand, but not taking simple precautions is just inviting disaster.

"Then you'd better find another way to do it." She glares. "You want kids. How do you keep them from falling overboard, huh?"

"By leashing them to the mast." She doesn't want to hear it, but it's the truth. A long rope that gives them the run of the deck but keeps them from toppling overboard. It's how fishermen's families survive. It's how his family will have to survive unless Firouz can come up with an alternative.

"I don't even leash Dermott," she says, flicking her eyes quickly to the little hawk up above. "You are not leashing me or my kids."

Kids are a long way off, so this isn't the time to fight about them. They have plenty of time for that. Maeve isn't pregnant and she doesn't particularly want to be, which means they can try watching her cycles and pulling out until the dice eventually catch up with them. That's not his concern right now. "You're a surefooted adult," he says, trying to be rational. "I'm not worried about you accidentally falling overboard. I'm worried about a storm washing you there, especially so far north in winter."

The sparks in her hair die down and she resettles, calmer now that he's acknowledged her ability to take care of herself. "You're not leashing me," she says. "But if a storm comes, I'll agree to go below. Until I can swim. How's that?"

It's going to have to be good enough, because he doesn't think she'll give him any more. "That's fair, _l__eannán_."

She smiles. "You still have no idea what that word means."

"It means you." What else does he need to know?

Her low, sweet laugh buzzes through him and she steps close, kissing his mouth, her anger forgotten. "Sorcha says you're cockier than I am. She may just be right." Her fingers touch his skin, feathering lightly down the plane of his cheek. "But gods, I love you."

He loves her, too. So much. "_L__eannán_, I adore you. But Doubar suggested you might want to know what you're about to get into."

"In what way?" She glances across the deck where Doubar and Rongar are raising the anchor. They clearly want to leave the north as quickly as possible. "I know you, Sinbad."

She does. Better than anyone. But she doesn't know everything about him. About his past. "I just mean that...well, you know I do my share of adventuring."

"Yeah. Adventuring. Fun." She nudges his nose with hers.

Yes. And he knows she's no stranger to it, nor to hard work either. But Doubar's right—she ought to be warned. "The thing is, no matter how much good I try to do, sometimes it ends up biting me in the ass. Or pissing off dangerous people. You warned me not to get kidnapped by monsters again. In this line of work, I can't make any promises. And there are a number of people who would very much like me dead."

"Such as?" Her honey eyes gleam.

"You want the whole list?"

"Who's at the top?"

That one's easy. "An evil sorceress named Rumina."

"Why? Did you jilt her?" Maeve laughs. "I could see you starting something with an evil sorceress and getting in over your head. You picked up with me awfully quickly, after all."

"Kismet." He kisses the tip of her nose, the curve of her adorable, mocking smirk. "I couldn't resist you." She couldn't resist him either, and she knows it. "And I didn't jilt her. I killed her father. He deserved it, but she doesn't see it that way."

"Ah." She bites his lip, sharper than a nip, then pulls back. Those beautiful eyes shine bright. She's happy—the happiest he's ever seen her. She's free. A little ball of flame appears in her palm and she tosses it playfully. "Evil sorceress, you say? Bring it on."

THE END

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_A/N: A huge thank you to everyone who has read and commented and come with me on this journey! After a week or so I'll be deleting all the author's notes and moving the necessary notes to the beginning of the story, which is how it will remain; I don't P&P. If anyone wants to translate my work for free distribution you have permission, just give me a link so I know it._

_Next on the roster is finishing "The Gift" - think we can get to Samhain by Samhain (Halloween)? Yeah, me neither, but I can try! And I swear "The Mirk and Midnight Hour" isn't abandoned. I know where we're going, just not quite how we're getting there. Thank you once again!_


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